


Sugar Me Sweet

by coffeeandcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Fluff and Angst, Hate to Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, Stalking, Stripper Dean, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-10-31 18:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 52,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10905060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Dean Winchester, stripper extraordinaire at the most exclusive club in town with a secret little webcam channel on the side. He's got a great apartment, an annoying little brother who lives just down the street, and even has a cranky old cat to keep him company when the nights get cold. He doesn't want, or need, anyone and is quite happy on his own, thank you very much.Castiel James Novak, a stockbroker with more money than he can spend, a bad attitude, and a crippling affliction of loneliness - among other things. He doesn't want, or need, anyone and is getting by just fine on his own.After a chance meeting at the club one night, a social media mishap brings them together once more. As the saying goes… opposites definitely do attract.**On a brief hiatus**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking for pure porn, this isn't the story for you. You're more likely to find Dean and Cas being awkward and sassy as hell as they dance around their feelings for each other, followed by a healthy dose of angst and domestic fluff. But it's rated M for a reason, and I didn't say there would be NO sex... ;)
> 
> Tags to be added to as this develops. And fair warning: Castiel is a bit of an Asstiel at the beginning, because of reasons. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean crashes to his knees, hiding a wince of pain as he comes down a little too hard. He braces himself on the ground behind him and arches his back, hips thrusting forwards, and hears a murmur of pleasure from somewhere to his right. He’s totally nude, save for a pair of military boots and a green g-string - jade green, the same colour as his eyes - which is one size too small and does very little to hide what he’s packing. An enthusiastic hand reaches out, a thumb hooks into the waistband, and a five dollar bill is pushed into his underwear, followed by a handful more as young men and women crowd the front of the stage to shower him in cash and attention. Music is pounding rhythmically in the background, coloured strobe lights are weaving and dragging over his oiled abs, and a couple of guys are whooping, cheering him, signalling the end of his stint on the stage.

He hops to his feet gracefully, scoops up the remains of his fireman costume with the tip of a finger, and exits the stage with a wink and a sway of his hips. Damn, he _loves_ the feeling of exhilaration from finishing a dance and having everyone fawn all over him. That was _awesome_.

He high-fives Michael, the next dancer to take the stage, as they pass each other. Michael makes a mock-kissy face at him, to which Dean rolls his eyes and flips him off with a grin, listening as the opening chords to Warrant’s ‘Cherry Pie’ sound through the club. More whoops and catcalling follow him as Michael evidently gets into his stride, and he almost feels regretful as he pushes open a door marked ‘Private’ and heads to the lockers. He's needed at the bar for an hour while Billie runs home to check on her kids, and he doesn't mind. He usually drums up some pretty good tips while bar tending. The changing rooms at _Stairway to Heaven_ are cleaner and more salubrious than most strip clubs he’s worked at, but this isn't any strip club. It's run by Fergus ‘Crowley’ MacLeod and his husband, a rich recluse who nobody ever sees but has earned the fond nickname Lucifer thanks to the way Crowley moans all over the place about him. Tongue-in-cheek, of course. And between them, Crowley and Lucifer mean wealth and power, so the club naturally attracts only the richest and most influential people in the city. It's a hundred dollars a pop just to enter the place, and a night tipping strippers and drinking top-shelf whiskey can easily clear a guy out of a few grand. Especially if a private dance is involved.

“Squirrel? Is that you?”

Dean glances up from where he's counting his tips to see Crowley step through the door looking, as always, a little bit irritated and a little bit put-upon. He's swirling a glass of deep amber liquid in one hand, and smoothing his black tie with another.

“Excellent show. The boys all loved you. And I think one of those cougars was ready to take you home.” His cool London accent is just the right side of offhand. “Make a few pennies?”

“Yup.” Dean shoves a wad of notes into his locker, pulling out his jeans and a white t-shirt. He's still in nothing but his g-string - boots already discarded on the floor somewhere - and can feel Crowley’s appreciative eyes roam up and down his body. He doesn't mind; he knows he's easy on the eyes - expanses of tanned, freckled skin shielding hard muscle and thick thighs - and he knows he's Crowley’s favourite. The guy may be his boss, but Dean knows he's earned respect from the testy Brit. His numero uno rule applies, hard and fast as always, with this guy along with any other to cross his path: you can look, but you can never, ever touch. “Tending bar for a while, Billie has to go powder her nose.”

“Sure, sure, do what you like.” Crowley waves a dismissive hand; the liquor swirls in the glass and Dean’s mouth waters. “But do me a favour, would you? There's a party up in VIP. Spending a packet. Make sure they don't get too thirsty, and maybe direct them to the private rooms.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Dean pulls on his shirt. “Anyone I know?”

“I doubt it. Big shots in the finance industry or something, and only one is a regular. It's a bachelor party, so make sure you show them a good time.” A hand comes down on Dean’s ass a split second before he pulls his jeans up. “There's a good lad.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can thank me later.” Dean shimmies into his boots, leaving the laces untied, and wanders past Crowley back towards the thrum of music behind the richly padded door. The locker room is decorated in shades of black and purple, velvet everywhere, and plays host to a couple of sofas where the boys can cat nap after a long shift. Crowley, despite his many shortcomings - his height included - does take care of his own.

“My gratitude should be thanks enough.”

“Ah Fergus,” Dean smirks, knowing he's the only one who can get away with lipping his boss and using his real name. “You know I love the sentiment. But diamonds are a boy’s best friend.”

With a cheeky wink that leaves Crowley chuckling, he leaves the door to slam behind him and heads round the edge of the room to the bar. His route is laid out by heavy velvet ropes, serving as a pseudo-barrier between the strippers and any interested patrons who might want to get up close and personal with their favourite dancer of the night. They were Crowley’s idea, to give the boys space to move around the club without being constantly groomed, stroked, or pounced on. Dean appreciates the gesture. He takes in the place as he walks, noting the regulars at their respective tables, the clusters of people at the bar, and Michael working the crowd on stage as he rips his chaps off to reveal tanned, solid thighs.

The first few customers he serves are the usual suspects. Flirty, a little inebriated, but nothing unfamiliar. They tip him generously, complement his performance and his pretty eyes, then vanish back to the stage to watch as a pair of dancers relieve Michael to gyrate erotically against each other. He grins, watching his friends make sultry puppy-dog eyes at each other then at the crowd, but an unsubtle throat-clearing to his right draws his attention. And damn if he's not glad that it did. The guy in front of him, leaning a hip casually against the bar, is hotter than the depths of hell, and Dean almost does a double-take, scooping his jaw up off the marbled floor. The guy is every wet dream he's ever had rolled into one delicious package. Dark hair that looks like he's just got up from a thorough round of fucking, blue eyes glimmering in the dim light of the bar, and hands that Dean would love to see wrapped around his…

“Finally.” The guy rolls those beautiful blue eyes in his generally direction. “I've been waiting forever.”

Thirty seconds hardly counts as forever, but Dean lets that one go.The guy orders a whiskey, straight up, and Dean hops to it, taking his time just for the fun of making the guy glare just a little harder.

“You look a little stressed out, man.” Dean spreads his hands on the bar, leaning forward with a sultry smile at his lips. “Anything I can help out with?”

The man snorts derisively, fiddling with his cufflinks. Dean notes he's being very careful to stand a good foot away from the bar, and deliberately isn't touching anything.

“Absolutely not. This place, your lifestyle, it's…” He trails off, waving a hand dismissively, and instant anger snaps to life inside Dean. _Condescending prick_.

“Beneath you?” He says it with his teeth bared in what could be construed as either a smile or a snarl.

The man laughs caustically. “I was going to say ‘abhorrent’, but we can use your phrase.”

“Oh, really? Abhorrent? Well, you can go to hell.” Dean slams the glass down on the bar and glares. “What the hell are you doing in a place like this if it’s not your kinda thing, huh? Admiring the forbidden fruit?”

“Hardly.” The guy scoffs at the mere idea, finally loosening his cuffs enough to roll his shirtsleeves up. A subtle black and white logo on the inseam catches Dean’s eye: Armani, very nice. Very typical of the type of men who frequent Crowley’s clubs. “I've been dragged here by my brother on some tacky bachelor party. I have absolutely no interest in watching low quality dancers flaunt themselves for money.” He arches an eyebrow at Dean, his gaze dropping to rake over his body for just a second. “You should consider a proper career. One that doesn't involve taking off your clothes, if you can even imagine that. You're conventionally attractive; you should show yourself some respect.”

Oh. Perfect. The ‘respect’ talk again. Dean has heard different variations of this over the years, but never from someone standing front of him on his own damn territory, mouthing off like he owns the place. He's about to open his mouth and snap out a piece of his mind when the phrase ‘bachelor party’ rings a dull bell. Damn. Better be nice to the prick, he could be lining Dean’s pockets for the night.

He shoves the glass towards the guy with a glare. “So I take it you haven't been doing anything as sinful as actually, I dunno, _watching_ the dancers? That would probably taint your moral high ground, right?”

“I have not.” The guy sips from the glass and pulls a face. “I'm here under duress. I've been entertaining myself quite well without the need of all this,” He waves a hand. “Iniquity.”

“Entertaining yourself, huh? Kinky.” Dean’s lip curls in a sneer. “Do I need to call security? It's a no-touch zone in here buddy, and that applies to your own junk as well as ours.”

“I've been _reading_.” The guy snaps, ruffled; a pink blush appears high on his cheeks and Dean feels a buzzard sense of satisfaction at knowing he put it there. Blue-eyes huffs and rolls his eyes, taking another swallow from his glass. “Typical, mind in the gutter.”

“Reading? At a strip joint?” He has to resist the urge to howl with laughter, but looking at the guy he isn't really that surprised. He wonders how far up his ass that stick goes. Eye-level, judging by his sanctimonious words and the way he holds himself so stiffly. It's as though touching anything in the bar beyond liquor-filled glasses will give him cooties.“Wow. You need to get out more, buddy. And by the way, you owe me for the drink. Twenty five dollars.”

The man reaches for his wallet with a raised eyebrow. “For that swill? Really?”

“Just be thankful it hasn’t been spat in.” Dean whips a note out of the guy’s hand and nudges a five dollar bill towards him, trying valiantly to keep his face from displaying his deep, burning dislike for the man. “Here.”

“No, thanks. You keep it.” His gaze rakes over Dean once more, and this time it’s judgemental and unpleasant. “You look like you need it a lot more than I do.”

Then he’s gone, crossing the floor and heading for the private members section just beyond the stage where a short, mischievous-looking guy is waving animatedly, and Dean has to repress a childish urge to throw the money after his pretentious ass. What the hell is he even doing here if the place, and it’s staff, are so ‘abhorrent’? And who comes to a strip club to fucking _read_? Loser. He grumbles and laments to himself behind the bar for a while, serving a few customers with a saccharine smile and exaggerated wink, until Billie comes to relieve him. He slams a sticky bottle of black sambucca back onto the shelf with a grimace, practically snarling at his own expression in the mirrored bar back. She takes one look at him, raises an eyebrow, and plants her hands on her hips.

“Easy, tiger. Who pissed in your whiskey this morning?” Her voice is a low, rich drawl, and it soothes Dean’s burning anger.

“Some asshole, thinks he’s too good to be in here surrounded by a bunch of strippers.” He grouches at Billie who clearly doesn't have the time or energy to deal with his bad mood. “VIP, of _course_ , so I can't even send him on his way. I have to play _nice_.”

“Then go play nice, Winchester, and get out from behind my bar.” She flicks a bar towel at him, smirking at the crack it makes on contact with his ass. “You're cluttering up the place.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm going, I'm gone.”

He grumbles his way back across the room, deciding to bite the bullet and go check on the big spenders in VIP before he loses the will to do so, changing quickly into black jeans and a bow tie before he does. Out of all the outfits he dons for dancing, this is the one that makes him feel the most ridiculous. Add a white shirt and he'd be a dancing penguin. Better call Mary Poppins and the clan. He checks his phone quickly while in the locker room, and replies to a couple of messages from Sam.

**What time are you home? Jess swung by your place earlier and left a couple frozen pizzas in your kitchen. You need to go shopping!**

_I know, Sammy, when I get a chance. These crowds aren't going to please themselves. Well, maybe they are when they get home…_

**GROSS. DEAN. Why do I bother?**

_Thanks Sammy, I owe ya one. Well, I owe Jess one. Pizza and beer tomorrow night?_

**Yup. See you then.**

*

VIP consists of more black and purple, more velvet ropes, and expensive suits and cologne. It's rare to get a party of women up here, but they have entertained the odd bachelorette party in the past. Crowley always makes sure they're well taken care of and ups security for the night. He might be a grumpy, acidic little fucker but his heart sure is annoyingly in the right place.

Dean climbs the stairs, silver tray and notepad in hand, ready jot down any orders they may have - drinks or otherwise. He isn't scheduled for private dances tonight, but he knows Michael will appreciate the tips if he sends a few of the guys his way. As predicted, six men in charcoal suits are crowded around a circular glass table, drinks in hand, watching the stage from their elevated position and laughing heartily in a way only the rich seem to be able to do.

It takes a moment or two for him to be noticed, but when he is he gets a couple of appreciative whistles and some definitely appreciative once-overs. He unconsciously tightens his abs just a little more. _Think of the money_.

“Oh look, the good Lord has sent an angel to look after us.” The speaker is British, petite with blonde hair and piercing eyes, and is holding a glass of cognac in a manicured hand, sitting in a lounge chair a few feet away. Dean smirks down at him and gets a raised eyebrow and a wink for his efforts.

“Or maybe I'm the devil, come to lead you astray.” He purrs, and a couple of the men laugh, appraising him with heat in their eyes. From somewhere to his left comes a derisive snort and he doesn't even need to look to guess who it is.

“Really, Balthazar?” Yup, that's the voice. Low, gravelly, and with positively dripping with disdain. “I don't think we need a waiter. You've spent half your salary already. I thought we weren't planning to be here much longer?”

“ _You_ may be planning on disappearing into the night, Cassie,” the guy named Balthazar - _Balthazar_ , really? - responds smoothly. “But _I_ on the other hand have much more exciting plans now that we have a new guest. What did you say your name was, darling boy?”

“He didn't say.” There's a snap, drawing Dean’s attention, and he sees that the guy is sitting stiffly in a high-backed chair, legs crossed at the ankles, and a deep frown between his brows. The sound had been him slamming his copy of some dull-looking social theory book closed, and Dean can't help but roll his eyes.

“C’mon, sugar, don't look so uptight. How about I get you another drink, loosen you up a bit? Always works for me.” Dean grins, knowing the effect his words will have on the upright prick. He's not disappointed. The guy turns beet red and glares so hard that his blue eyes practically spark. His work done, Dean turns back to the rest of the group.

“So who’s the lucky boy getting married?” They all gesture to the impish-looking man who had been waving to ‘Cassie’ earlier, and he waves cordially in response. “Well. Let's make tonight as special as we can then, boys. Next round is on the house, so what’ll it be?”

It's a trick Dean employs fairly often: foot the bill for a round of overpriced alcohol and get rewarded with tips and recommendations to friends for his efforts. Works every time. And it certainly works tonight: the drinks roll in, and Dean pockets a handsome amount of money. Even blue-eyes slings him another ten bucks on his way out; Dean watches as he pulls on an ugly trench coat and picks up his book.

“Gabriel, it's been a pleasure. Enjoy the rest of your night and don't do anything stupid; your wedding is in three days so he responsible for once. Balthazar, see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early, Cassie, as always!” He sing-songs his reply as blue-eyes disappears down the stairs, and Dean has to rein in the urge to put his boot between his shoulder blades as he goes. Sending a client headlong down the stairs would be bad for business, and Crowley would tan his hide. “Golfing date,” Balthazar elaborates to Dean, clearly misinterpreting his look of irritation as interest. “Cassie’s handicap is better than mine, but one day I'll beat him.”

“That day may not be tomorrow,” Dean comments as Balthazar downs yet another shot of something.

“It may, or it may not. I don't want to think about tomorrow when tonight is shaping up so…” He licks his lips, staring at Dean’s abs. “Deliciously. Do you have somewhere more private we can go?”

“No, sorry, I don't. But my friend down there?” He points to Michael, who is giving a lap dance to a tall, slender man in a shadowy corner. “He does. And I know he would love to take you there.”

The rest of the night goes by pleasantly, with Dean waiting on the VIP table in between dances, and eventually his bad mood and irritation with ‘Cassie’ - he assumes, or rather he _hopes_ it's a nickname - evaporates. By the time he's changing back into his civvies in the locker room, bantering with Michael about the rich VIPs who turned out to be stockbrokers - and therefore absolutely fucking loaded - the guy is just a distant memory, a jerk customer whom he will joke about for months to come.

The guy who came to a strip club to _read a fucking book_.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean arrives home a little after 9am, tired and hungry but otherwise pretty happy with his night’s work. His key jams in the lock and he jostles it until it's free, opening the door to see his displeased Maine Coon cat ambling towards him in a flurry of ginger fur and arched eyebrows. If cats had eyebrows to arch, that is. He scoops up ten kilos worth of fluff and nuzzles noses with his pet, crooning into his fur.

“Have you missed me, Zepp? Have I been gone forever? I know, I'm sorry, daddy won't leave you ever again.” He plonks Zepp back on the floor, watching him stalk away with his tail flicking, heading for the kitchen. “Well, until tomorrow that is.”

He follows the cat down the hallway, stopping to drop his phone, headphones and keys on the hallway table and marvel at what a great job he and Sam have done at repainting the place. The dull, sage green is gone from the walls to be replaced by a cool grey, with chic black accents of silver and chrome. Dean loves his apartment, and is enjoying redecorating and remodelling it in his spare time. He already owes Sammy a few man hours and a crate or two of beer for the help, and he probably owes Jess the same for stealing her husband for so many evenings.

His phone pings, reminding him that he has a webcam show scheduled later in the evening, but he has plenty of time to kill between now and then. Time to eat, sleep, catch up on Netflix, and plan what he's going to do for his customers this evening. He's about to log on to Tumblr for some inspiration when a message from Sam pops up, obscuring his wallpaper image of him snuggling Zepp as a kitten.

**You home? Busy later? I have Cubs tickets, then Jess is throwing a last-minute garden party.**

_Will there be burgers involved?_

**Yup, the Dean Winchester Special: burgers, beer, and all the pie you can eat. I swear Jess likes you more than me, she went shopping to that bakery you like especially. You coming?**

_Hell yeah. I'm busy for an hour so I'll skip the game, but see you at your place._

**Busy?**

_Things to do, hot guys to please ;)_

**Why did I ask…?**

_Laters, Sammy_.

He showers, taking his time over it, enjoying the sensation of soapy hands sliding across his body. Drowsily, he runs a hand down to cup his half-hard cock, giving himself a few cursory strokes, but his heart isn't in it and he needs to save himself for later. It doesn't stop him from teasing his cockhead just a little, nor does it stop a stray finger stroking over his entrance, in excited anticipation of tonight’s antics. It takes a while to clean all the baby oil, moisturiser and glitter from his skin but he takes his time, humming a Prince tune to himself. Zepp watches from the comfort of the pile of clothes in the laundry basket, ensuring everything he touches is properly covered with ginger fluff.

Dressed and fresh from his shower, he wanders into the kitchen with Zepp at his heels, drying his hair with a towel and wondering what to have for breakfast. He faffs about in the kitchen, putting some coffee on and poking his head into the fridge, and soon the apartment is filling with the delicious of dark roast. Dean muffles a yawn with the back of his hand. He should really sleep after such a long shift at the club, but he's a bit too hyped, is craving a caffeine hit, and his stomach is demanding attention. Also, the knot of irritation that has been present since the bachelor party at _Stairway to Heaven_ just won't quit.

He still can't get over the arrogance of that one guy, Cassie, and almost a week has passed since that the guy darkened the club’s doorstep. He must have made an impression for his memory to be lasting this long - normally Dean can forget about arsey customers but this one is taking pride of place. The guy has _really_ ruffled Dean’s plumage and he regrets not giving him a piece of his mind at the time, VIP or no VIP. It would have been worth a verbal spanking from Crowley just to take the prick down a few pegs. It's pissing him off even _thinking_ about the jerk, and it's irritating him no end that all he's been able to do all night at work is think about him. He had tended bar for an hour, covering for Billie again, and every dark-haired guy with five o’clock scruff reminded him of blue-eyes. He almost snapped at one testy guy who he was certain was him, and apologised with a free shot and chaser since the dude looked like he was about to holler for Crowley.

He clicks on to a new episode of Gilmore Girls on the kitchen television and tries to lose himself in it, but the arrogant sneer on the guy’s face when he called Dean’s lifestyle ‘abhorrent’ keeps swimming before his vision. Soon, he finds himself once again having vicious mental arguments with ‘Cassie’, which all culminate in him winning and making the dude eat his words. He can't lie: those same mental arguments have culminated in visions of the guy eating more than just his words over the last week, when Dean lets his mind wander when he's alone at night. Dude might be a prick, but he's a hot prick and Dean knows a good mouth when he sees one. He wonders absently if the guy is single, then mentally shakes himself. Cut it out, Dean, the guy would rather roast you on a spit than date you.

Hmm, spitroasting…

_Cut it out, Dean!_

He can't stop thinking about this Cassie, so eventually he gives in to his desire to learn more about him. For purely research purposes, of course. The guy, unsurprisingly, hasn't been back to the club since the bachelor party, and he doesn't have the number for the one regular from the group - a wallflower named Alfie whom Dean had paid little attention to that night. Plus, calling him up and asking questions about his stoic, surly friend would be the epitome of creepy.

So instead he does the one thing he's sure any rational, sane person would do at this point: he Facebook stalks.

He's well aware that all the cool kids use Snapchat these days, but it's beyond his technological abilities so he sticks to what he knows. Chatting with old school friends on Facebook, and posting erotic selfies to Instagram. He's amassed almost twenty-thousand followers on his Instagram account, all of who seem to enjoy snaps of his oiled hard abs, hands strategically cupping his own cock, and sultry pictures of himself in panties. Generally, those seem to get the most likes and, coincidentally, bring him in the most income on his webcam channel whenever he plans a live show and teases with a preview. Hmm. Maybe that should be the theme for tonight.

He spins his laptop to face him and opens up Google Chrome. He knows he won't find the guy based on ‘Cassie’ alone, but he's pretty sure there's only one Balthazar in town. Sure enough, a quick search brings up the profile of a suave, sexy Brit whom Dean recognises immediately. He clicks ‘Friends’ and groans when he sees the total figure: almost six thousand. Really? On _Facebook_? This could take all night.

He types in ‘Cassie’ and finds, unsurprisingly, nothing. But as he’s backspacing to begin the arduous task of scrolling slowly through each and every one of six thousand profiles - what? He has nothin else to do on an idle Sunday morning - a profile pings up with the shortened moniker ‘Cas’. Dean clicks on the image and _yahtzee!_ It's the arrogant prick from the club, right there in the flesh. Well, in the pixels.

Castiel Novak, the profile reads. Dean scrolls through his About Me section muttering, ‘boring, boring, boring’ to himself. He's some big shot at the Amara Group, a Wall Street success story with small subsidiaries throughout the country. Dean mimes falling asleep at his computer, grinning at Zepp for support. Zepp winks at him, then curls up with his back turned: confirmation enough. The guy’s social networking presence can send even an insomniac cat to sleep. He clicks on ‘Hobbies’, preparing to be bored to tears by the list, and is a little disappointed when it comes up blank. Well, that's probably very telling - he smirks at his own wit while downing the rest of his coffee - the dude probably doesn't have any, especially if his less-than-sparkling personality at the club is anything to go by.

He clicks back to the main profile and scrolls down, finding a few tagged photos of this Novak guy on a golf course, at a black tie charity event, and a picture of him with what must be his twin brother against the backdrop of a pretty Alpine ski resort. They're very twinny twins, and Dean can't actually work out which one of them is ‘Cassie’. The other guy isn't tagged in the picture, so Dean can't go any further down the rabbit hole with his snooping.

Just as Dean is about to start aimlessly clicking trough photos of this guy just because he can, Zepp suddenly uncurls and chooses that moment to jump onto the table and cause chaos. A fresh bottle of water with the cap loosened goes crashing over, the contents spilling everywhere, and as Dean yelps in shock the cat jumps onto the laptop keyboard with innocent amber eyes and sits down, flicking his tail and watching his owner flail about to clean up the mess. Fuming, Dean grabs the cat and tosses him onto the sofa, slamming the laptop shut and clearing it away before anything happens to it. His online stalking forgotten, he goes to rise his hands in the sink and ferret about for something to eat.

If only he had checked Castiel Novak’s Facebook profile one more time. He would have seen the little blue tick underscored by the words ‘Friend Request Sent’, courtesy of Zepp and his giant fluffy paws.

 

*

 

Today? Today is not going at all fucking well, for Castiel or for his PA. She’s a sweet, pretty wisp of a girl who followed Castiel when he made his move from Wall Street, and is one of the only people who will tolerate his mood swings and nasty attitude when things go awry. And this morning, in Castiel’s view, things have gone _spectacularly_ awry.

First, Anna had been late. Which meant he had arrived before her, which meant he had to unlock his office himself and turn the lights on himself. (Which means admitting that he had no fucking idea where the light switches even _were_ until this morning.) It also meant that his venti extra-hot, double-shot, sugar-free, soy white mocha was not at his desk as normal, placed strategically between his keyboard and his Newton’s Cradle on the black leather coaster, with the logo facing him and the drinking hole in the lid aligned perfectly. It meant turning on his computer _himself_ and checking his messages _himself_ , and that took a whole fifteen minutes which left Castiel Novak feeling extremely unamused and agitated. Anna had arrived in tears, sniffling about a family member being injured and Castiel had no idea what to do with that information so he gave her a folder and asked her to type up some letters for him. If it were _him_ , he's sure he would want something to take his mind off complex family troubles.

By the time 8am rolls around, Anna is on her second box of tissues and Castiel is on his last remaining nerve. He's about to conclude his inner battle of whether to fire her or bury her body in his garden, when the door swings open and she enters with a folder full of impeccably-typed letters in one hand and a refill of his favourite beverage in a Starbucks cup in the other. Her smile is a bit watery, but at least she's straightened out her eyeliner. She places both items down on the desk under Castiel’s watchful eye, making sure the drink is perfectly positioned and that the folder is perpendicular to the corner of his expansive glass desk.

“There you go,” As always, he finds her voice soothing. “All done. And I figured you'd need a top-up. You've had a difficult morning.” She smiles at him again, and it's warmer this time. More familiar. The tension in his shoulders eases.

“Thank you, Anna. I'm aware that I have been short with you this morning. My apologies. How is your mother?”

“Staying in the hospital tonight, but the doctors think she’ll be fine. Just a mild concussion.” Anna looks relieved and relaxed, and that soothes Castiel’s fraying nerves. He knows he shuts down when his routine changes, if he doesn't have time to prepare himself for it, and when he does a black thundercloud hovers above him, visible for miles around. Only a handful of people seem happy to stand under it with him, and Anna is one of them.

“Good. Fine. You can go, I have a conference call in a moment.” He sips the drink and adds, as an afterthought to her retreating back. “I wired some money into your account. An apology. And an assistance with medical bills. I hope it's acceptable.”

It will be, he's certain. She smiles and tells him thank you, no need at all, but thank you, and shuts the door behind her. Castiel is left alone, rubbing his brow and trying to wipe away the frown lines that seem to have settled there over the past few weeks.

He settles into his morning, conducting phone calls and answering emails before opening a file from Cain, one of the partners, and getting to work. Before he knows it, hours have passed him by as he loses himself to the pleasant task of formulas and equations, all tied to this year’s financial forecast. A ping from his personal phone finally draws his attention away from his third draft of a budget spreadsheet, and he swipes across Balthazar’s name on the screen to reveal his text.

**Cassie, darling. Check your Facebook - Gabriel has put up some photos from the bachelor party. He must be social-mediaing on honeymoon, that little tyke. There's a fabulous one of you and I. Dinner tonight as planned? I do miss that scowl of yours.**

_Yes. 8pm. Don't be late._

Scowl, what scowl? He doesn't scowl. He touches his fingers to the ridge between his eyebrows, and concedes unhappily. All right. Maybe he scowls _occasionally_.

It's 11:05am, so he supposes it's fair that he takes a little break, since he's been at the office since just before five. He can allow himself a couple of minutes away from his computer to check his Facebook. He gets up from his desk and wanders to the sofa, to stretch his legs more than anything else. He opens up the app on his phone and immediately sees a blurry image of Balthazar holding up a glass of whiskey and tugging Castiel into the picture with an arm around his throat. He looks elated and buzzed; Castiel just looks miserable. He stares at the photo for a moment, stares at his friend and how happy he looks, and for a moment wishes he looked just as cheerful in the picture. It's been a long, long time since he felt even close to that feeling. Someone called Marv has commented on the image, and he feels a pang of hurt as he reads it. ‘Looking good, Balthazar. Shame about the misery-guts on your arm.’

He's about to log out, swallowing a ball of shame and regretting opening the app at all, but then a little red dot at the top of the screen catches his attention. A friend request? He never gets those. Someone must have clicked on him by accident, or thought he was someone else. His twin Jimmy, most likely, it happens once in a while. The name flashes up, and it isn't one he recognises: Dean John Winchester. His gaze flicks to the profile image and he squints, unable to make it out. He taps the name curiously, and when he profile loads he swears his heart skips a beat.

Dean John Winchester is… _him?_ The mouthy stripper from that overpriced _dive_ Gabriel dragged them to?! What on _earth_ is he doing sending Castiel a friend request? They aren't going to be _friends_!

He scrapes his jaw up off the floor, only to find it returns there pretty rapidly at the sight of the profile photos. The first one is of the stripper’s handsome face squashed against the cheek of an angry-looking, enormous ginger cat. Sweet. Mildly irritating for some reason, but sweet. He swipes to the next one, curiosity getting the better of him and finds that the second one is more… provocative. It's a picture of Dean on a stage with the camera angled up towards him, with coloured lights streaming down his bare chest, wearing nothing but cowboy boots and a mischievous grin. Only the hand cupped in front of his groin keeps his modesty hidden. Castiel feels his cheeks heat up at the sight of the image, and flicks to the next one in second-hand embarrassment. Mistake. This one is of Dean lying facedown on a fluffy white bed, a floor-to-ceiling window behind him, and he's propped up on his forearms and grinning at the camera. Oh, and he's totally nude. It's clearly been taken by a partner, pre- or post-coital Castiel can't tell. But by the glow of Dean’s cheeks… His eyes travel with a will of their own across the broad, tanned shoulders, down the line of his spine to land on the curve of his ass and… shit. The guy is _gorgeous_.

 _He wants to be_ , the snarky little voice in his mind argues, i _f all he does is take his clothes off._ And Castiel feels slightly vindicated at the thought.

He swipes to the next photo, cheeks pinking again as he feels a rush of guilt, looking through the guy’s pictures like this but… Dean has friend requested _him_ , so surely that's fair play? There's nothing wrong with _looking_. And wait just a minute, how did the cheap, mouthy little stripper even _find…_

“Castiel?”

He drops the phone in shock, and it goes skittering across the hardwood floor to clonk against Anna’s Louboutin. Automatically she reaches down to pick it up before he can stop her, and when her lips part a little then make a surprised ‘O’ shape in shock he knows he's been busted for Facebook stalking. The only question is what photo is on the screen? He hadn't had a chance to get a proper look.

“Sorry, Castiel, you, uh, dropped this.” She hands it back to him, pink-cheeked, and he almost gasps out loud at the photograph on the screen. It's a professional black and white shot of this Dean Winchester leaning against a wall, nude save for a pair of tight boy shorts that hide approximately nothing which he has his thumbs tucked into, and the look in his eyes very plainly says, ‘come fuck me’. Anna gives him a small, secretive smile as her eyes flick down to the phone then back up again. “He's very handsome, Castiel. I didn't know you were seeing someone.”

“I'm… he's…” Castiel flounders, his anxiety spiking and his heart rate picking up. “Anna, he's a _stripper_!”

“Oh,” Her brows furrow in puzzlement. “That's… nice.” She pats his shoulder and hands him a scribbled message on a post-it note. “I just want you to be happy, Castiel. You know that.”

“No, he isn't… we aren't…” Agitated, he runs a hand over the back of his neck and closes his eyes. “If you think I would _associate_ myself with…”

“Rowena MacLeod is here a little early.” Anna deftly cuts him off sensing, as she always does, that he's floundering in the face of impending panic, and her consistent knowledge of how to calm him is soothing in itself. “She has a midday meeting about investing in a new charitable foundation. It sounds fascinating.”

“With Rowena, it always is.” He grumbles to himself, already dreading spending the next few hours listening to the woman’s wild plans for charitable world domination. If such a thing even exists. He locks his phone and stands up, deciding to leave the mystery of Dean Winchester’s Friend Request for a later date, and follows Anna out to meet his client. Within five minutes, he's so frazzled by Rowena and the fantastical tales she spins up that the whole fiasco is forgotten.

Customarily, he doesn't leave his office until gone 9pm, and today is no different. He tidies up his desk, makes sure everything is aligned correctly, double- and triple-checks that he's logged out of the server on his computer, then double- and triple-checks he hasn't forgotten anything. Then he doubles back just to check it all again, and to adjust the mouse a half-centimetre to the left. It was out of place. He's late for dinner with Balthazar, but they've moved their reservations to 10pm, so that's all right. He knew in advance, so it doesn't fill him with too much anxiety. He's sure his friend will be sampling the aperitifs while waiting for him, and flirting with anyone who looks his way.

He's almost at the elevator when a thought occurs to him and he returns to his PA’s desk with a faint blush playing at his cheeks.

“Anna?”

“Yes, Castiel?” She smiles sweetly up at him. “Did you forget something?”

“No, I just wondered.” He frowns without thinking. “Do I scowl? Ever? A lot?”

He isn't sure what answer he’s expecting, or indeed if she will answer at all. For a split second he considers turning on his heel and walking away without waiting for a reply, but he's aware that would make him look even more odd than usual. She appraises him for a long moment, face carefully neutral, then says soothingly, “No, Castiel. Not at all. You're very handsome.”

He heads back to the elevator both confused and convinced that he has just been lied to, rubbing the spot between his eyebrows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balthazar gets up to mischief...

“Cassie! Darling, you made it!”

It's a little before 10pm when Castiel arrives at the restaurant of Balthazar’s choice - _The Ship of Dreams_ \- and it takes him a moment to see where his friend’s cheery voice is originating from. He spies him at their usual table, waving his fingers at him and calling out his name delicately. The room is filled with people in dinner jackets and expensive watches, and the delicious aroma of Michelin-starred food is underlaid with delicate cologne and perfume. The lighting is subtle and flattering, and a string quartet sits in the corner, entertaining the diners. It's Balthazar’s favourite place to visit - for the food, naturally, but also for the people-watching. His mildly pretentious friend certainly likes to be seen rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. Castiel couldn't care less about who he is or isn't seen with, but the restaurant does know how to do a good chateaubriand with the perfect wine pairing. 

He sinks gratefully into his seat opposite his friend as the maître-d takes his coat and whisks it away. A waiter materialises as if from nowhere to fill his glass with expensive Sauvignon which Castiel accepts with a flick of his wrist, trusting Balthazar’s choice. The smells wafting from the kitchen are divine, and he's pleased to see they've secured the chef’s table as per always, despite the little hiccup in timings. Balthazar really does know the very best people. The mere thought of eating further into the busy fine dining establishment sends shivers of anxiety down his spine, and he absently straightens out his cutlery until it's perfectly aligned. Perfectly in order. Then he takes a deep swallow from his glass and finally begins to relax.

“I'm sorry I'm so late. It's been one of those days.” He punches the bridge of his nose, frowning, then forces himself to stop _. Stop scowling, Castiel. Anna basically confirmed that you do. You'll get wrinkles._

“No harm done, I've been enjoying the company of our lovely waiter,” Balthazar winks at the man who blushes and smiles, handing Castiel a menu. “And sampling their new aperitifs. Spectacular, you must indulge.”

“If you say so.” Castiel sniffs, running a finger down the menu and ordering the same thing he always does every time they come here. He snaps the menu closed, hands it to the waiter without bothering to acknowledge him, and takes another sip of wine, feeling the alcohol seep straight into his bloodstream. It definitely takes that anxious edge off, the one that has been following him around ever since Rowena decided to get on his last nerve with her incorrect and frankly laughable knowledge of shareholder dividends.

They chat casually about their weeks, trading mildly amusing stories about friends and coworkers, and their meals arrive before too long. Balthazar makes a big song and dance about the caviar, complementing every waiter and waitress who passes by their table, and Castiel just shakes his head ruefully at his friend’s antics - whilst privately agreeing with him. It's almost midnight by the time their main courses arrive, but thankfully they're dining in a place that bends to the whims of its patrons and doesn't have a strict chucking-out time. Castiel doubts they will ever eat somewhere that does. He's loathe to admit it to himself, but he does enjoy the extended dinner-and-drinks sessions with his oldest friend, even though they cost him an arm and a leg and do invite the inevitable hangovers the following day.

“Mondays were created for imbibing!” Balthazar always tells him, cheerfully. Of course, he says that about any day of the week ending in a Y, but after the stress of today Castiel is happy to unwind in front of a bottle of wine.

He's been undecided about whether to mention his little Facebook dilemma, but as the Sauvignon lines his veins and retracts his inhibitions, he finds himself confessing to his friend that he has a small problem and isn't sure how to proceed.

“Oh?” Balthazar leans forward in interest, spearing a scallop with his fork. “How fascinating, tell me more.”

“I got a,” Castiel waves his hand dismissively. “Friend request. On Facebook.”

“Ah yes, well, that can sometimes happen. Hazard of social media and all. Was it anybody of note?” His friend sips his wine and arches a brow at Castiel over the rim of his glass. Awkwardness suddenly descends upon Castiel, and he rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, eyes growing wide and concerned.

“It was... Um. So, you remember Gabriel’s bachelor party?”

“I do, sadly. I don't think I imbibed nearly enough.”

“Remember the waiter you hired right before I left?”

“The handsome devil with the world’s most kissable lips? Broadest chest you've ever seen and muscles for days? I think I had a dream about those pecs last night…”

“Balthazar!” Castiel snaps, looking and feeling completely ruffled. He stops just short of slamming his palm down on the table. “This is serious. I need your advice!”

“I'm all ears.” He spears an olive and delicately takes it from his fork, chewing in rapture. “The food here is divine.”

“It's him.”

“Who's him?” Another sip of wine, another olive down the hatch. “Castiel, whatever are you talking about?”

“He added me on Facebook. The _stripper_!”

The last word is said too loudly and, typically, there's a lull in the conversation around them and more than a few heads turn to gawk at them. Mortified, Castiel covers his eyes with his hands and tries to will himself out of existence. It doesn't work, and when he peeks through his fingers he sees his friend’s head tipped back in gleeful, full-bodied laughter.

“Ohh, this is _fantastic_. The stars have aligned at last!” Balthazar swirls his wine and leans forward to address his friend in as serious a tone as he can manage. “This is fate intervening, my darling. You've been on your own for too long now, and here's the perfect opportunity to get up and at ‘em. What's that vile phrase, you always find romance when you least expect it? Well, nobody could have expected _this_.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Castiel is incredulously angry. “Don't you think it's just plain _wrong_ , him searching me out? A complete violation of my privacy?”

“I'm not sure privacy is very high up on his list, based on what he had on display at the club.” Balthazar arches a meaningful eyebrow. “What I _mean_ , Cassie dearest, is that you've walked around with that stick up your backside for years now - and let me tell you, there are far more pleasant things to put back there-”

“Baltha _zar!!”_

“And this is our good Lord sending you someone to relieve that tension for you. A little light relief, a sparkling romance, a bit of flirty fun. Whatever you like to call it. I'm telling you,” The Brit smirks and lifts his glass in a toast. “Fate. To fate, and her naughty little tricks.”

“I can't believe you're encouraging this.” Castiel had been convinced that his friend would take his side and be sufficiently horrified on his behalf. Surely something like this is considered _stalking._ Perhaps he should call the police? His cousin Joshua is a detective over in Chicago, he would have some good advice. “He's a stripper Balthazar, hardly someone I'd form a meaningful relationship with. What on earth would we talk about? If he knows more than five words to string together, that is?”

“Cassie!” The Brit looks genuinely shocked for a moment, and a faint blush pinks Castiel’s cheeks. OK, that was a bit too catty. “That's rude, even for you. He could be a perfect gentleman for all you know. Imagine if he is. Wouldn't that be the perfect package?” Balthazar waves to the waiter and points to his glass in a wordless, ‘refill, thanks darling’. “I'm jealous, I must admit. Why don't you show me this little harlot who has your feathers so ruffled, hmm?”

“No.” His response holds little conviction. The waiter appears with a second bottle of Sauvignon and one of an expensive champagne as a gift from the management for their continued custom. Balthazar showers the young man with praise while Castiel rolls his eyes and waits for him to leave.

In spite of himself, and his words, Castiel breaks his firm ‘no phones at the dinner table’ rule that he enforces upon everyone he dines with, and fishes his iPhone out of his pocket. He finds the profile of one Dean John Winchester and, already regretting his decision, slides the phone across to his friend. For a moment, Balthazar frowns then his expression clears to one of pure joy as he swipes through the profile images. He stops on one he clearly likes the look of, and lets out an appreciative little hum, setting the phone down on the table and fixing his friend with a stern share.

“Castiel. I would consider it a sin if you _didn't_ do something about this little situation. He's even more delicious than I remember.”

“I'm not interested,” Castiel seethes quietly into his wine. “He isn't ‘my type’.” His air quotes are kind of embarrassing.

“You don't have a type.” Balthazar deduces loftily. “Nobody, never, and nowhere are not _types_. Did it ever cross your mind that _he_ might be interested in _you_? Hence the mouse-click on your profile?”

It's unlikely, considering how Castiel had spoken to the young man as he had done nothing but his job and handed him his drink. To this day, he regrets being so harsh. Sometimes his anxieties display themselves in ways he isn't in total control of. Which in turn, cause him further anxiety and worry. He can really work himself up into a ball of stress, even if he were alone in a dark room; it's one of his biggest strengths, and something he despises vehemently.

“I don't care if he is! He's…” Cheap. Slutty. Easy. Beautiful. _Beneath me_. Too good for me… “Just not of interest to me, sorry Balthazar.” He extends his hand for his phone. “Give that to me so I can delete it and just forget it ever happened.”

“Castiel.” Balthazar’s face is suddenly void of any humour. “I'm not asking you to marry the guy. Just maybe give this a chance. He might surprise you in all the right ways.”

“I dislike surprises.”

“I know you do. I know you need to control everything in your life, and no doubt this has thrown you for a loop. But not every surprise is a bad one.” There's a very uncharacteristic softness about Balthazar at this moment, mirrored in his eyes and his tone. “You should give him a chance.

“No.” Rudely, Castiel snaps his fingers. “Phone. Now. I'm fine on my own, I neither want nor need company. Especially from someone who clearly can't understand the definitions of self-respect and modesty. Virtues which, to me, are fairly important. I don't want anyone, Balthazar, because nobody could live up to my standards and I doubt I would live up to theirs. We would end up disappointing each other, and I'm pretty sure that would be a waste of everyone’s valuable time. And what am I supposed to do, even if I _did_ want to peruse this? Poke him? Write on his wall? It's all so _juvenile_ it makes me sick. Give me my phone.”

His friend appraises him silently for a long moment. Takes in Castiel’s outstretched palm, the flush of his cheeks, the immaculate presentation of his hair and suit, and the small glow of something sad hiding behind his blue, blue eyes. Something fearful, that has been there for a long, long time. The fear that pushes Castiel to drive people away, and to immerse himself in his work. The fear of rejection, and the fear of losing something meaningful. Castiel is so terrified of loneliness that he forces it upon himself daily so he doesn't need to worry about it coming as a sudden shock and blindsiding him. He knows what he wants, and is very firm about it.

But right now, Balthazar knows something else. He knows what his friend _needs_.

“No.” Balthazar’s entire demeanour changes. His mischievous smirk and the glint in his eye are both back with a vengeance, and Castiel swallows nervously. “Castiel. Darling. I love you, but you're a recluse and a hermit.” Balthazar sweeps Castiel’s phone up off the table. “And I do worry about you spending all these hours at the office. You need to have a little _fun_ , and perhaps this playful little toy boy is exactly the man for you.”

“No. Wait. Balthazar, stop.” Alarmed, Castiel tries to reach across the table and grab his phone without upending their wine glasses. Balthazar only holds it up out of reach with a patronising smile, as though he's talking down to a naughty toddler. “Don't!”

“Now, Cassie, it’s for your own good.” He twists his hand, displaying Dean John Winchester’s Facebook profile on the lit up screen, and his thumb hovers over the little grey ‘Respond to Friend Request’ tick. “Go out there and spread your wings. Start an epic romance for the digital age. Don't make me regret doing this…”

And he taps ‘Accept’. Castiel feels like someone has thrown the nearest ice bucket over his head, complete with the contents of the wine bottle.

*

 **Castiel Novak has accepted your friend request**.

“What the- _fuck_!”

Dean’s phone slithers out of his slackened grip to land with a plop in his plate of key lime pie, splattering pastry and whipped cream all up his AC/DC t-shirt. He had barely been paying attention to it when a notification from Facebook had flashed up on the screen, and he had picked it up with sticky fingers to have a look.

“ _Fuck_!”

“What the hell, man?” Sam grouses as Jess jumps up from her seat to grab a washcloth. Dean fishes his phone out of the pie and wipes it off, a mixture of shock and anger coiling in his guy. Zepp jumps up on the chair next to him and tries to lap at the splattered whipped cream; Dean shoves him away irritably, regretting for the hundredth time that night bringing his cat to Sam and Jess’. Needy creature hasn't left his side all night.

“Sorry, Jess. Butterfingers.” He wipes his t-shirt then drops the cloth in a ball on the table next to him, not noticing Sam grimace and fish it up with a fingertip, chucking it into the sink. He's too busy glaring at his phone in utter bewilderment. Castiel The Arrogant Dick Novak has done _what now_?

“Earth to Dean!” Sam snaps his fingers in front of his brother’s face. “No phones at the table. It's bad manners.”

It's also hypocritical, since Jess is checking her tweets at the exact same second, and glances up guiltily. Sam pins her with a look, but she just shrugs and carries on scrolling. Dinner is pretty much over anyway, Dean was just finishing off his third helping of his favourite pie, and by doing so was sparing them of having to store the leftovers.

“I'm just… hold on a second, Sammy.”

“It's Sam.” His brother grits out, for the billionth time in his life. “Sammy is…”

“A chubby twelve-year-old, yeah, yeah, I get it, now shut the fuck up for a second.” Dean dismisses Sam with a wave of his hand, opening the Facebook app with the other. And yep, sure enough, Castiel Fucking Novak has accepted his friend request. A friend request he absolutely _did not fucking send_. What on earth is going on? He never sent the guy a bloody _friend request_ , he was just _snooping_ , nothing was supposed to…

Zepp makes a mrrrp sound, winding around his ankles, and Dean freezes. Zepp. And his stupid hairy legs knocking things over. Those fat paws on the laptop keyboard. That browser window he hadn't shut down… oh _fuck_ , what a situation. He drops his phone and buries his head in his hands in embarrassment.

“Oh no, no, noooo. Zepp, you assbutt, what the hell did you do that for? No tuna for a month.”

Sam and Jess exchange glances, quite clearly questioning his current mental stability, but Dean will deal with them in a moment. Right now, he's considering turning his cat into a very handsome throw rug.

Castiel Fucking Novak must now think he's a grade A stalker with a penchant for rich assholes who talk down to him. He's probably laughing spitefully about it with his snotty friends right at this moment, about how cheap and easy Dean is, and how the poor little stripper must be so starved for attention that he does out hunting down clients. Maybe he's going to print Dean’s picture out and send it round the whole of the Amara Group just for shits and giggles. ‘Look what happened to Castiel’. Fodder for hilarious cocktail party stories, the little stripper who stalked. Great. Warmth heats his cheeks, spreading right to the tips of his ears, and he's finding it hard to understand why he _cares_ so much. Sure it's embarrassing, but damn. He shouldn't be this level of cut up about it. It's only Facebook.

“Dean!” Sam is clearly on his final nerve. “Either tell us what's going on, or take Zepp and go home to mope in your own house. You look like someone stole your last cookie.”

“It's not… OK.” Dean takes a deep breath, running his hands over his face and tries to get things into perspective. “I had a… mishap. Online.”

“Oh?” Sam looks the perfect mixture of intrigued and disgusted. “What kind of mishap? Tell me you had your clothes on?”

“What? Oh- Sammy! Of course I did!”

Sam shrugs, as if to say, ‘well, you don't always’ and Jess snickers to his left. Dean kicks them both under the table, unamused.

“Not that kind of mishap. The Facebook kind of mishap.”

“What did you do this time? Upload a still from one of your pornos as your profile picture?”

Jess snorts and bursts into laughter, and Sam grins, shaking his shaggy head. It's meant to be a joke, hilariously funny because Dean doesn't do porn, _obviously._ He's never shot that kind of stuff, _obviously._ Everyone knows that's where the line is drawn.

Except… there are one or two things that Sam doesn't know, things that Dean would prefer kept under wraps. And his short stint in the porn industry is one of them, since it wasn't exactly on his terms to begin with. He feels his cheeks burn again and clenches his fist, willing away the toxic memories that swim to the surface every time someone mentions porn in his vicinity. He does not need reminding of those days, thanks very much. Especially not right now when he's already feeling humiliated and his ego is bruised enough.

“All right. Just don't… judge me too harshly without hearing the full story, OK?” Jess nods, Sam just stares at him impassively. “Remember that douchebag who came to the club last week?”

“Yep.” They both reply in unison; they've heard Dean rant and rave about ‘Cassie’ more than once over the last eight days.

“Well, I… Zepp kind of… maybe… added him on Facebook.”

“Your cat. Added some guy you hate. On _Facebook?”_ Jess looks as flummoxed as Dean feels. “Your cat has a Facebook?”

“No. He was on my profile.”

“Dean.” Sam speaks slowly, expression neutral and betraying none of the ‘what has my brother done _now_ ’ impatience that Dean is waiting on. “Why - or rather _how_ did Zepp suddenly learn the subtle nuances of social media, and why the hell was he anywhere near this guy’s profile? He treated you like garbage.” As guilt flashes over Dean’a face, Sam groans in despair. “You were stalking him, weren't you? Dean!”

“What? Everyone does it!”

“No, they don't! Jess, back me up here.”

The pretty blonde shakes her bouncy curls back from her face and shrugs. “Sorry, Sam. I think you're the only one who doesn't. And hey, I'm guessing he's cute, right Dean? That's why you looked?” She smirks. “Nothing wrong with a little eye candy.”

Sam gapes at her and she shoves him playfully, while Dean rolls his eyes at them both in exasperation. “No, he's not _cute_. He's a _dick_. I just wanted to, I dunno. I… don't know.”

“Well?” Jess reaches a manicured hand towards him and snaps her fingers. “Let’s see him.”

Grumbling to himself about asshole clients and idiot cats, Dean unlocks his phone and slides it across to her, open on the photo of Castiel at a black-tie event. He looks… kinda cute. All right, very cute, in a slightly stiff, uppity, ‘I love myself’ way. Dark scruffy hair which looks impossible to tame, juxtaposed with a sharp black suit and a purple scarf. He's holding a glass of champagne and smiling demurely at the camera, looking almost bored. Jess’ eyebrows shoot up at the sight of the image and she whistles.

“Damn. Dean, I get it now. I would have stalked too.”

“Jess!”

“Oh, Sam, I'm kidding, give it a rest.” Then she frowns down at the phone, before looking up at Dean in shock. “You said you added him by mistake, right?”

“ _I_ didn't. Zepp did.”

“OK, whatever. So,” She holds the phone out so Sam can see as well. “Why the hell did he _accept?_ ”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember at the start of this I said there may not be much sex?  
> Yeah. I lied.

It’s Thursday night, and Dean is just finishing up one of his webcam shows. He’s hot, tired, slick with sweat, and every muscle is wound up tight. He’s in his bedroom with the lights on low, and some old rock tunes playing in the background from his phone, creating the perfect sultry atmosphere for his cam show. He’s been teasing his fans for close to two hours, opening himself with his fingers and sinking down again and again on a thick dildo made of clear, smooth glass that kept him stretched open and gasping as he rode it. His cock is weeping and desperate, throbbing with the urgent need for release and, as he arches his hips to take the dildo deep again, he feels the wet head slap againsthis belly, leaving a clear string of pre-release connecting the tip of his cock to the sweaty skin of his stomach. He’s got his back to his laptop screen and therefore the camera, and doesn’t know what he looks like, but he can imagine. He's freshly waxed between his legs, and his skin glimmers with a light layer of baby oil to accentuate his tan, as per the request of a regular the night before. He's on his knees, chest presses to the sheets and his hands working tirelessly between his thighs: one hand is cupping and massaging his balls and the other pumps the thick glass shaft in and out of his hole. He knows his entrance will be gaping when he finally withdraws the toy, swollen and red and slick, and he wants to ensure his viewers get a good look at it when he finishes up.

And finishing up will be happening sooner rather than later. He's aching between his legs, wet cock throbbing and jerking with each inward thrust of the toy, and he's angling it so that it hits his prostate with every inward thrust. As always, he's narrating what he's doing for the benefit of his viewers. Before he had turned his back on the camera and bent over to expose himself, he had clocked a figure of almost 1,500 users logged in to watch his show; he will be banking a helluva lot tonight, and he's earned every penny. He's almost spent, almost exhausted, _almost_ there.

His hand slides from his balls down to his shaft and he jacks himself slowly, moaning.

“Fuck, that's so good. Mmm, yeah, god I love it deep. _Fuck,”_ He pulls the glass slowly from his body; it's warm now, slick with lube, but when he had first teased his entrance with the tip it had been cool and his body had tensed and clenched up as he pushed it in. He knows his audience would have enjoyed that sight, the image of him pushing the glass shaft into himself and groaning as his body stretched almost to his limit. He pushes it in again, deep and firm, gasping as his prostate is stimulated and his cock leaps in his hand. “God, feels so good, right there. So deep inside me, fuck, feels incredible. So hard for it, need it deep so badly.”

He jacks himself faster, his eyes falling closed as his balls draw up and his body tightens. He rubs his thumb over the head on every upstroke, dipping into his slit and smearing the pulses of precome down over himself, slicking the way for his hand and he moans as the dildo hits his sweet spot again.

“So close… fuck, so close. _Ahh_ ,” His hole tightens around the dildo and he pushes it inside him once more, then his vision whites out as his orgasm crests and breaks over him. “Gonna come… _fuck_!”

His spine arches, driving his face and collarbones further into the mess of sheets, and every muscle spasms as he climaxes. His cock thickens and pulses in his hand, and he spills hot come all over his hand and the sheets below him, making sure he spreads his legs as wide as possible so that his viewers can see his spend dripping from him. He keeps working himself through it, moaning and gasping and holding the toy in deep, squeezing himself at the base and working right up to the tip, forcing every drop from his body.

“Fuck… yeah, fuck, that's good… so fucking good… _oh…”_

A small second wave of pleasure hits him and he whines, the dildo grinding on his prostate as he jacks himself again, slowly, careful not to overstimulate himself. His groans fill the room as he finally relaxes and eases the toy from his body, spreading his thighs until his hips ache pleasantly, exposing his slackened hole, wet with lube, to the camera.

“Mmm, that felt incredible.” His voice is choked and thick, the way it always is after an orgasm. He wipes his hand haphazardly on the sheets, ensuring some of his spend remains on his fingers. He reaches behind himself and tugs at his rim, knowing the effect he's having on his viewers. This is a favourite for them: watching him finger his own fucked-out hole. “Wish you guys were here to feel how wet and slack I am.” It's a blatant lie; he's glad to be alone. This is as far as he goes with using his sexuality to gain money. But he would be a liar if he denied enjoying every moment of it. He's an exhibitionist at heart, and he's managed to turn that kink into a way to earn a fairly decent living. It's win-win.

He withdraws his fingers, finished playing with himself, and spins around to sit up and face the screen. He looks utterly debauched and fucked-out: red cheeks, skin slick with sweat, and his lip is swollen from where he's been biting it. Slowly, with glittering eyes and the knowledge that his fans are still watching, he brings his fingers to his lips, the same ones that have just seconds ago been inside him, and licks the residue of come and lube off them, letting his eyes fall closed as he does so. He sucks and laps at them with his tongue until they're clean, then looks down at the screen to read some of the reactions. They're exactly as he hoped.

**Incredible. You're fucking unreal.**

**So hot. Need more.**

**Wish you were here, would love to stuff you full and make you come again.**

**Don't stop, baby. Show us what else you got.**

**Beautiful. When's your next show?**

He grins, chats to a few regulars for a moment or two and writes down some requests to ponder later, then blows a kiss to the cameras and signs off. A good evening’s work done, and he's definitely earned himself a hot shower.

The heat of the water feels good against his aching muscles, and he tips his head back so that the spray hits his face. He takes his time, cleaning all the come, oil and lube from his body, and eventually steps out of the steamy bathroom naked, drying his hair with a towel. With no housemates, he has no reason to be modest; the only one judging his body is Zepp, and Zepp has seen it all countless times. The furry goofball watches him from his spot curled up in one of Dean’s open drawers, covering everything in cat hair, and Dean irritably shoos him away. He pulls on his comfiest pair of boxers - long on the leg with a picture of a bear snarling across the front of them - and strips the sheets off the bed to wash in the morning. It's not the cleanest job in the world, being a cam boy, but he can deal with a few soiled sheets if it means he brings in the dollar. A quick check of his bank account online reveals that he's drawn in enough money tonight to pay his rent for the next two months at least, and he smiles in satisfaction. That means more money left over to use for restoring the 1967 Chevy Impala that is parked in the garage downstairs, awaiting a new engine and a full-body makeover. The car was a gift from his absent father in the month before he dropped off the map, and Dean has held onto it ever since then, waiting for a time when his finances would allow him to shower it with the love and attention it deserves. _She_ deserves, he corrects himself. She's a lady, after all.

The bed remade, beer and leftover pizza in hand, he snuggles down under the duvet, enjoying the pleasant ache in his ass and thighs, shifting until he's comfortable before picking up his phone to begin his nightly scrolling through social media. He doesn't have anywhere to be until 9pm tomorrow when he's due to work at _Stairway to Heaven_ dancing and tending bar, while helping Crowley plan their annual Pride weekend. He helped with it last year and it was a blast, and this year Crowley is channelling more money and advertising into the event so it absolutely must be a success. Dean has a few ideas up his sleeve already and has the weekend marked down on his wall calendar in giant block letters. He loves a good party.

He clicks onto Instagram, edits a photo of himself licking cherry lube from the glass dildo - a shot he had taken during his cam show earlier - and uploads it. Instantly, responses begin to trickle in and he grins at some of the lewd comments. He's sure that he shouldn't enjoy being such a tease, but he can't help it. He loves the attention, and he's proud of his body. Why the hell not show off? Why not bang a few gongs before the lights go out? If ya got it, flaunt it, isn't that the saying? He reposts the image to his Twitter account (the only thing he uses Twitter for is to post saucy images, the fast pace of it all is too damn stressful) then goes back to his original plan of scrolling through his social media feeds.

Or, more to the point, attend to his blossoming obsession with Castiel Novak.

It's been _days_ since the guy accepted him following his mishap, and those days have been nothing but radio silence. Novak hasn't got in touch with him at all, in any way, shape, or form on the social media platform and it's grating on Dean’s nerves. _Why_ the arrogant son-of-a-bitch is so under his skin he can't pinpoint, but it's driving him slowly mad. He still can't figure out if he should just delete the guy from his friends list and be done with it, or if that would make him look even more idiotic. He brings up Novak’s profile and studies his profile picture. It's a new one, uploaded two days ago, and depicts Novak at another black tie event, looking similarly aloof and detached as he does in the other photo Dean is so keen on. No, wait, not _keen on_. It just… the guy looked nice. He looked fine. Ugh, whatever. Dean is a sucker for a guy in a tux, especially an attractive one, and apparently his brain doesn't want to separate ‘hot’ from ‘asshole’ when it comes to Novak. He touches the screen with his thumb and forefinger, zooming in a bit on the image. Maybe he's delirious with exhaustion, but somehow the guy seems to have got even more dreamy over the last few days. His lips are full and kissable, and his blue eyes are just the perfect shade, unique in a way Dean has never seen before. And he's looked into _a lot_ of eyes while he's been giving lap dances, so he has plenty of references. Someone has commented on the photo, a woman named Anna, saying that Novak looks nice and that the event was great fun. Dean frowns. Girlfriend? Wife? Neither?

 _Why_ has the guy not got in touch? Why did he _accept_ Dean’s bungled request if he didn't plan on _doing_ anything? Dean grumbles under his breath about rich, arrogant dickwads as he scrolls aimlessly through photos of the guy that he's already familiar with, before deciding it's high time he curtails his stalking and gets some sleep.

His thumb hovers over the screen. For all he knows, Novak is sitting somewhere waiting for _him_ to make the first move in this bizarre Facebook stalemate they've ended up in. He can picture the guy sitting stiffly in some stuffy office in front of a laptop, book in hand, looking bored and condescending. His phone inches from his hand, defiantly refusing to react to Dean’s existence. Well, Dean is definitely not one to back down from a challenge.

He hits ‘like’ on Novak’s latest profile image, locks his phone screen and tosses it away, heart pounding with nerves and the exhilaration of finally doing _something_ , and tries to let himself drift off to sleep. Unsurprisingly, it takes him over an hour to fall asleep and when he finally does, his dreams are plagued with visions of glaring blue eyes and messy dark hair.

*

Three days later, Dean changes his profile photo to an image snapped by Michael, of him oiled up onstage mid-show, ripping off a pair of velco-sided black pants, part of his police officer costume. He has another of him in nothing but black boots and aviators, cupping himself and grinning, taken only moments after the first, but it's too similar to another he posted pretty recently, so he goes with the tearaway pants instead. Two hours after he uploads it, a notification pings his phone: **Castiel Novak liked your photo.**

*

Slightly tipsy after dinner with Sam and Jess a few nights later, Dean stands waiting for the elevator in his building while checking his phone, and sees that Novak has uploaded another photo: one of himself and his twin with their arms across each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera. Well, one of them is grinning and the other is barely managing a small incline of his lips, giving away exactly which one of them is Castiel. Grumpy git can barely crack a smile even for the camera.

Smirking to himself, Dean clicks ‘like’ on the image then puts his phone away as the elevator doors ping open and he steps inside. He can't pinpoint why he's playing this stupid game. Tit for tat, trading off Facebook likes with a guy he can't stand, and for what? So that if he ever sees him again he can crow over winning a game of online chicken? Assuming it's Castiel who cracks first and deletes him. Because it sure as hell isn't going to be Dean. After getting over his initial shock at Novak liking the image of him stripped down to next to nothing, he figured that it was a deliberate barb. A silent ‘yes, I've seen this, and I still think you're a slut’ kind of thing. So he prodded right back, and now the ball is in Novak’s court. It's childish and passive aggressive, and jut a general waste of both their valuable time, but it's fun to metaphorically pull the guy’s pigtails.

Wait. No, that's not what Dean is doing. Because _that_ would imply that he _likes_ Novak, which he most certainly does not.

He's just having fun with this game of cat and mouse. That's all.

That's _all_.

*

Castiel jerks awake with a low gasp. Once again, the dreams of driving his car along a forest road are plaguing him. In his dream he's behind the wheel, the road is dark and shrouded in shadow, and he's nervous but can't pinpoint why. The inevitable always happens: he suddenly loses control of the car for no reason at all, the tail spinning out from behind him with a shriek of brakes, and it plunges down into a ravine. He always wakes up before the shattering impact, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. Tonight is no different: he's sitting bolt upright in the cool darkness of his bedroom, wide-eyed and staring into space, one hand at his chest and the other fisted tightly in the sheets.

His therapist says these dreams are normal, that they go hand-in-hand with his OCD and that he shouldn't be too concerned as to their content. Easy for her to say when she's not the one waking up feeling like death is only seconds away. Castiel manages to get himself out of bed and into the bathroom on unsteady legs and splashes water onto his face to try and chase away the final remnants of the dream. His own face stares back at him from the mirror above the sink, haggard and tense, and he's definitely scowling. Damn Balthazar and his observations, he's been paranoid ever since that offhand, throwaway remark. Should he get Botox again? He hated the feeling of the needles last time and had spent the whole night on the phone to Gabriel, panic-stricken that he was having a reaction to the treatment and that he had made a really stupid mistake. Turns out he was fine and had just overreacted completely, but the night of anxiety has sufficiently put him off ever going near the stuff again.

He debates going back to bed, but in the end turns the shower on at the sight of the time. Three AM. He’s normally on his way to work by five anyway, especially on a Monday, so there isn't much point in going back to sleep. The water is a welcome distraction from the dream, and eventually washes away the last of the remaining feelings of unease. Water cascades down his spine and into the crease of his ass, and for a moment he just braces himself on the wall with one hand and stands there, head bowed, allowing the tension to ease out of his muscles. The shower is set to exactly 38 degrees, the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash and charcoal scrub are lined up on the shelf in the order he needs them, all of them facing outwards and with exactly two fingers width of space between them. Castiel spends a long time in the shower, longer than he's sure is normal, but it makes sense to have everything neat and tidy. Just because he's the only person to see the products doesn't mean they should be left in a mess. He adjusts the tube of charcoal scrub by half a centimetre and shuts off the water, feeling cleansed in more ways than one.

He showers, dresses in shorts and a plain t-shirt and does a half-hour workout in his home gym. By the time that's over, he's feeling a lot better. It's always a relief when he's able to work out more than normal, to get through some of the stress and tension that seems to follow him around. He showers again, quickly in cold water, then dresses in a sharp, designer suit and fastens his cufflinks as he walks through to the kitchen to make his morning coffee. His breakfast is always the same: a cinnamon raisin bagel with almond butter and a banana, with an espresso from the machine that cost him a ridiculous amount of money. Jimmy scoffed incessantly when he purchased it, so he makes sure he uses it daily mainly out of spite. He hates it when his twin is right about anything.

Today, for some bizarre reason, he's very conscious of how quiet his apartment is as he completes his morning routine. Normally he enjoys the space and the solitude, but this morning it feels empty. Vacant. _Lonely_ , his subconscious supplies and he shakes it off angrily. He isn't _lonely_ , he enjoys being on his own. He likes his independence and would get irritated with another person around all the time, with their conversations and their possessions and their _needs_. He's fine.

When the clock finally reads an acceptable time to leave for work, he packs up his laptop and iPad, and selects a suit jacket from his wardrobe to match his pants and waistcoat. He looks sharp and businesslike, as always. Serious, studious, someone to take notice of. It's how he's fought his way to the top of his game, and it's how he stays there: by being someone the opposition don't dare cross. It's a facade that has served him well over the years.

He scoops up his phone to tuck it away in his pocket, but as he does the screen lights up with a new notification: **Dean John Winchester has commented on your photo.**

Thunderstruck, he drops the phone and it skitters away under the bed, causing him to scrabble about for it with his heart in his mouth and his cheeks flushing warm. What on _earth_ has Dean written? On which photo has he commented? Why is he awake at such an ungodly hour…? Oh. Right. Stripper. Works late. Of course, well done Castiel, missing the obvious yet _again_.

The photo in question is one uploaded by his twin, Jimmy, earlier in the week and he's been tagged in it. He almost made it his profile photo before choosing one from the recent charity benefit instead, deeming it more suited to his professional image. But this photo, the one with the rogue comment on, it’s of him dressed down in a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sitting in a booth at Jimmy’s favourite restaurant the next town over, one hand wrapped around a glass of vanilla cold brew and a crooked smile at his lips. He's clearly on a day off. Jimmy is the only person who can make him smile in photos and mean it; his eyes are sparkling with mirth, and he remembers the bad joke Jimmy had told right before snapping the picture. Castiel looks like a different person, relaxed and calm, and he stares at the image for a long moment before taking a deep breath and clicking on the comment.

It's only one word, but it's enough to make Castiel stare down at it with his mouth agape, wondering if he's hallucinating or if he needs new glasses. Dean John Winchester _cannot_ mean… surely… _really?_

There, in stark block capitals, right underneath his photo is a single word: **_GORGEOUS._**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the tags, folks ♥

Oh, God. Oh, _God._

Dean vomits in his sleep, the painful lurching of his stomach dragging him close to wakefulness as the searing acidity of bile burns his throat. Oh. God. Actually, sleep isn't the best word to use for the state he's currently in: semi-conscious, passed out, _drugged._

Drugged. That might be the best word to use…. Some sort of memory swims to the surface then sinks again, forgotten. He groans and throws up again, all down the side of whatever bed or sofa he's lying on, and a cool hand comes to his forehead and a glass of water is pressed to his lips. From somewhere very far away, he can hear Sam saying his name.

“…you're all right. Dean? Dean? Answer me, man.”

“Sammy?”

Dean claws his way back to consciousness with some difficulty, and can blearily make out the silhouette of his brother leaning over him, wearing a concerned frown. Jess is lingering in the background, and Dean feels like he's dying. He's in their spare room, he's sure. Only his brother would paint a wall that ugly shade of orange. His eyes burn, desert dry, and he closes them with an unhappy whine.

“Th’fuck happened?”

“You tell me.” Sam wrinkles his nose. “Jess was leaving work after her night shift and found you stumbling all over the place in the middle of town, you could barely string a sentence together. What do you remember?”

“Nothin’.” Dean collapses back onto the bed with a groan, throwing his forearm over his eyes to block out the light. His head is spinning, feels like somebody jammed a meat cleaver into his skull, and his stomach is roiling threateningly. “Fuck. I'm dying.”

“I don't think you are.” Jess’ voice this time, nearby, sounding confused and concerned. “Were you out last night? Drinking?”

“Don't tell me this is a hangover…” Dean cringes at the thought of alcohol. “No way.”

“No. you were… completely out of it, Dean. I found you down near the club, but you could barely speak or stand up. I had to call Sam to come and help, I couldn't get you to focus on me or listen to a word I was saying. What do you remember?”

Dean feels hot all over, sweating buckets, and swallows a mouthful of bile. What _does_ he remember?

A dimly-lit bar. Beer. Vodka. Dancing. Michael. Kissing. Michael. Topless. Both of them. Texting… showing Michael his favourite obsession with a lopsided smile. Michael massaging his shoulders and kissing his neck as Dean orders more drinks. Scrolling through Castiel’s photos. More dancing. More kissing. Laughter, lots of it. Castiel’s photos. Writing something on one of them… _fuck,_ what did he write? Two other guys dancing with him, kissing him, buying him drinks. Smiling and shaking his head when they invite him to leave with them. Their displeased faces. More drinks. Then…

“Fuck.” Dean groans low in his throat; he knows exactly what happened to him now. The face of one of the guys is vaguely familiar, swimming in his subconscious. Arthur-something. British. Irritating. _Smiling_ as he handed Dean a drink… Then nothing. Nothing at all.

 _Fuck_.

He's been drugged. _Again_. He turns over and buries his face in the pillows, moaning quietly to himself. Behind him, Sam and Jess talk in hushed, whispered tones that reek of concern, and Dean fights back a strange desire to cry. This isn't the first time he's had his drink spiked and it likely won't be the last. Thank God Jess found him when she did or else… he does a quick once-over of his body and nope, nothing really hurts aside from his head and stomach, so he's pretty sure he's managed to escape relatively unscathed. But the miserable, disgusted, _violated_ feeling is still here, sitting low in his chest. He's fought prejudice and abuse most of his adult life due to his chosen career path, and comments and jeering he can take.

But things like this? Near-misses? These are a lot harder to come to terms with. Because his safety is on the line when this sort of thing happens, and even though he knows it's probably his own fault for letting down his inhibitions and accepting drinks from strangers, it's still sobering, horrifying, and terrifies him to think about what could have happened. He clamps his lips shut as another wave of nausea threatens, and his head pounds violently.

“Roofied.” It comes out as a croak and he tries again. “Drugs. Was drugged.”

“Dean.” Sam’s face comes back into his vision. “What shall I do? Phone the cops? An ambulance? What do you need? Did anything… did anything happen? Were you…”

“No.” Dean cuts him off firmly before he can say the word that sends shivers down his spine and makes his eyes burn. The R word. “No, Sammy. I promise. I'm fine. I just…” The world starts to darken at the edges. “…need sleep…”

“Dean.” Sam grips his shoulder, the touch too firm, too painful to Dean’s burning skin. “I should call the cops. We need to report this.”

“No. No. Just… lemme sleep…” Dean passes out again, his eyes damp with tears and Sam’s soothing, worried voice lulling him into darkness.

*

“Cassie? Darling, I can barely hear you! Where are you?”

“Five minutes away from the office.” Castiel’s voice is terse with anxiety. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I had an early Pilates class. Now, you know me, normally _nothing_ can drag me out of bed before midday… but the _teacher_. You should see him, Cassie. Sex on legs. And those _hot pants…”_

“Balthazar!” Castiel snaps, in no mood to listen to his friend gush about some likely unattainable fitness instructor. “What do you want?”

“Ah. Straight to the point, I like it. I just have one little question, and it simply cannot wait until later.” There's a muffled swallowing sound on the end of the line as Balthazar takes a deep drink of something. “I want to ask you why on God’s green earth _Dean Winchester_ is writing you sweet little compliments on your photos?”

Appalled, Castiel drops his phone. He bends to pick it up, groaning at the sight of the deep crack across the screen. Fucking _perfect_. He's going to need Anna to order him a new cell phone immediately, and wonders if she can sort it out before lunch time and get it functional and set up just how he likes it. The idea of looking at the crack in the screen for more than another few hours is already making him feel twitchy, and he tries not to think about the microscopic particles of glass that could work their way into his fingers if he touches the screen. Dammit. This is all Balthazar’s fault. _Why_ did his friend call him? Just to wind him up? Apparently.

“I don't know, do I?” He barks down the line, assuming Balthazar’s call has survived his iPhone’s battle with the concrete. “We aren't _friends_. We aren't even _acquaintances._ ”

“Clearly not,” His friend sounds fifty shades of amused. “I don't think friendship is what he has his eye on.”

“You know what?” On his last, frayed nerve Castiel pushes open the side doors to his building and heads for the elevator. At this hour, hardly anyone is in the building. He walks past the mailman, a cheerful guy named Chuck who always smiles at Castiel and wishes him good morning. Sometimes, Castiel smiles back. “I have no idea what he's up to, and frankly I don't care. This is _not_ episode one in your little love story, before you get any untoward ideas. This is…” _Yes, Castiel? What exactly is it_? “ _Nothing!_ I have to go.”

“All right, go an untwist your panties and try not to murder your assistant. But Cassie, just one thing?”

“ _What?”_ Blissfully, the elevator doors are opening and Castiel steps in, alone as he would expect at ridiculous o’clock in the morning. His signal will be cut off in three, two…

“If this is simply _nothing_ , then why have you not yet deleted him from your friends list?”

…one.

The line goes dead, and Castiel is left glaring furiously at his distorted reflection in the brushed steel doors.

Upstairs, he slams his phone down on Anna’s desk, making the poor girl jump in fright, and snaps, ‘Replace it!’ at her before barricading himself in his office and sitting with his head in his hands as he tries to regain his rigid self-discipline. His chest aches, tight with anxiety, and his mouth is bone dry. Everything feels like it's spinning out of control. His fingers are tingling unpleasantly and he recognises the early signs of a panic attack. The nightmare last night, combined with Dean Winchester’s Facebook comment, mixed in with Balthazar’s teasing is pushing him towards an edge, one he recognises and despises. _This_ is why he doesn't go out and meet people.

He spent his entire walk to work considering all the possible meanings of Dean’s comment. **_GORGEOUS._** It could be sarcasm, aimed to tease and jibe at him, because he isn't gorgeous at all. He's fine, nothing special, and certainly nothing worth getting excited over. Anxiety twists again in Castiel’s gut as his body image issues tug at his subconscious and he savagely shoves them back. The comment could be intended seriously, but what on earth for? He was rude and unpleasant to Dean, had insulted him right off the bat, and can see no reason such a complement would be aimed at him. Perhaps Dean knows Jimmy somehow, and got their pictures confused… he dismisses that idea right out of the gate. Jimmy and Dean are blissfully ignorant of the other's existence, that he's certain of.

Then what? Why? _Why_ write anything at all? _This_ is why he's on his own, because he can't cope at all with the tiniest little baby step of connecting with someone new. _This_ is why he's built his walls so high. He doesn't know how to deal with attention, positive or negative. But over the years it's become easier to deal with the negative, and the positive has all but drained away.

*

Dean feels utterly, completely, devastatingly shit. He finally succeeded in convincing Sam that he was OK to leave his house and make his way home just after midday, and he managed to make it all the way to the next street before throwing up in someone's hedge. It has taken him the better part of an hour to get halfway home; he had rebuffed his brother’s attempts to either drive him home or call him a cab, insisting that the fresh air would do him a world of good. He's feeling marginally better by the time he staggers into the pharmacy at the end of his street, in search of painkillers for his pounding head and anti-nausea tablets to stop him puking up every drop of water that passes his lips. It's the middle of the day, the sun is beating down on him, and all he wants to do is get home and crawl into bed and just _pass out_. Whoever fucking spiked his drink last night better sleep with one eye open, he grumbles away silently to himself as he fumbles through packet after packet of painkillers in search of something strong and effective. He picks things up at random and discards them, trying to read the labels through the pounding in his head. One packet slips through his fingers and he reflexively jerks to catch it - managing instead to knock over a row of antacids on the shelf below, sending a couple tumbling to the floor and rolling away. Dismayed and just completely _done_ with the entire day, he rests his forehead on a shelf and tries to breathe deeply.

The gnawing feelings of guilt, fear and disgust still sit low within him, but he lacks both the energy and the mental capacity to tackle them right now. He can barely breathe, let alone think.

God, he feels like he's about to hurl his guts up. He needs to get his drugs and get _out_.

He turns to pick up the items he's dropped, but someone has got there first. A dark-haired guy in a smart suit is bent down, retrieving the two pink bottles, and as he stands up Dean feels like the world has dropped away beneath his feet.

No.

No way.

Abort, abort, abort.

This _cannot_ be happening to him.

Castiel Fucking Novak is standing not two feet away from him, brushing imaginary dirt from his palms and holding out the bottles towards him.

“Here. I think you dropped…”

Their eyes meet just as Dean is about to turn around and run at full pelt for the doors, and a moment passes between them when ether speaks. They just stare at each other, dumbfounded at encountering one another in the real world. Truth be told, Dean has almost forgotten that Castiel Novak is a real person, not just some figment of the social media world. Then…

“Hello, Dean.”

And fuck if that deep rumble didn't just go straight to his cock, even in his exhausted, nauseous, the-world-is-still-spinning state. He almost reaches out to steady himself on the nearest rack - a flimsy, spinning thing that displays sunglasses - and doesn't miss the flicker of concern in Castiel’s eyes.

“Um. Hi.” Oh, such wit and eloquence. How impressive. Dean… honestly feels like he's about to throw up. The lights in the pharmacy are too bright, he's suddenly far too warm, and his skin feels clammy and chilled. Bile rises in his throats and he chokes it down furiously. He will _not_ vomit on the floor in front of this guy. No freakin’ way.

Castiel steps forward with a frown, depositing the bottles on the wrong shelf without a care. He's got some other stuff in his hands, boxes of tablets, Dean can't read the labels and doesn't care to try.

“Are you all right?”

“Uhm…” Zero points for observation skills, dickwad. “No. I'm… I don't feel well.” The world tilts threateningly and he grips the nearest shelf for support. Sweat breaks out on his brow and he has to focus very hard on breathing in and out. “I…”

“Do you need assistance?” Castiel’s frown deepens. “Should I call for a doctor?”

“No, no… I'm fine.” Dean wafts his hand in front of him in a pathetic attempt to wave away the concern. “I just… went out. Last night.”

“Oh.” The cogs turning in Castiel’s head are practically visible through his frown. “You're hungover.” He says it like it's a crime, like it's a disgusting thing to be. _Screw him._ Dean _wishes_ this was a hangover.

“I am not! I had my freakin’ drink spiked, so… yeah. That's why I feel so shit. Can you just…” _Disappear. Please._ Dean waves his hand again. Bile rises in his throat and he swallows, hard. He needs to get out of here. Needs to be in the fresh air and _away_ from this man.Like, yesterday. He retches, grips the shelf until his hand goes numb, and covers his mouth with his palm. Fuck.

“You had your drink _what_?” Castiel almost drops the products in his hands. His jaw hangs open and his eyes go wide and freaked-out. “Dean! That's terrible! Are you all right? Oh, I mean, obviously you're not _all right,_ but are you OK? Do you need anything? Can I-”

“I'm fine, Novak.” Shit. “Castiel. I'm fine. Or I will be, as soon as I get home and get these pills down me and sleep this off. It's happened before.”

It's meant to be a reassuring comment, intended to convince Castiel that he's survived being drugged before with no real consequences besides a sore head and an aching stomach, but his wry smile apparently isn't encouraging enough. Castiel’s eyes widen impossibly more and he gasps audibly.

“It's happened _before_? Dean, I can't believe… I mean, I'm so sorry… wait, I mean…”

“It's fine. Really.” Dean’s head is pounding, the room is swimming before his vision, and his temperature is spiking again. He feels the creeping sensation of sickness crawling up his throat, and his mouth fills with saliva. _Shit._ “I… I gotta go…”

And he pushes past the dark-haired Adonis roughly, heading for the door in a desperate bid to make it outside before he vomits. He makes it - just. Out on the street he braces himself on the wall with one hand, coughing and retching and bringing up nothing but bike and water as his stomach spasms and his throat burns. The world tilts horrifyingly as the pounding in his head almost obscures his vision, and a cool hand on his arm catches him before he can fall.

“Dean.” The low, rich voice is right by his ear, and it's weirdly soothing. He reaches for the source of the sound, gasping in a couple of breaths as his hazy vision starts to return to normal. “Let me take you home.”

“No… no… I can walk.” He coughs, spits another mouth of vomit onto the sidewalk and closes his eyes, cringing. Perfect. Novak already looks down on him, what on earth is he going to think now? “I just live down the street. I'll be fine.”

“Well… here.” A small plastic bag is pressed into his hands, and a quick peek inside reveals painkillers, two bottles of water, anti-sickness tablets and rehydration sachets. “These should help. Are you sure you don't need to see a doctor?”

“No.” Finally, Dean drags his gaze up to meet Novak’s, and is momentarily mystified by the concern in his blue eyes. “I'll be OK. I just need to sleep this off.”

“But, Dean…”

“I'm _fine_ , Castiel. Thanks for the drugs. Really. I appreciate it. But I'm good. I'll… I'll see you around or something, yeah?”

And with that, Dean drags himself away from the wall and makes his way down the street, only staggering a little. His warm, cosy bed in his cool, dark bedroom is calling to him and he can't wait to choke down a mouthful of everything in the carrier bag Castiel gave him and curl up to sleep this off.

He’ll worry about what a fool he just made of himself later, when he eventually feels human again.

*

It isn't stalking, it _isn't_. Castiel isn't sure how a police officer would see it, but he's managed to convince himself that it was all right to follow Dean home.

He stands across the street from the building Dean has disappeared into, finally feeling the tension in his chest begin to ease. He wasn't following Dean for any negative reason, he just wanted to make sure the other man got home all right. Which he now has done, and for some reason Castiel is still rooted to the spot, staring at the door which had swung shut on the other man’s retreating back. The building is nice, smart and clean with interesting architecture and high arched windows. Not the sort of place he imagined Dean living, and he's awash with guilt at the thought.

He shouldn't be concerned about Dean Winchester. He shouldn't _care_ about Dean the stripper who looked like he was on the verge of passing out at any given second. He shouldn't have felt the swooping sensation of horror when the other man so casually admitted to being given a date rape drug on more than one occasion, nor should he have followed him outside to make sure he was all right when he was vomiting his guts up. He shouldn't have been bothered at all with following Dean home to ensure he made it safely. And, right now, he absolutely _should not_ be fighting the urge to cross the street and make sure the other man isn't slumped against the wall of his stairwell, unable to make it upstairs.

He doesn't do that. But as he walks back to his office, shaken and feeling sick himself, he can't stop thinking about Dean Winchester, and can't help but wonder if Balthazar was right. Perhaps despite all his cynicism and reservations, fate really is taking the reins, bringing he and Dean together in the most bizarre way possible.

It's only when he walks through the revolving glass doors of the Amara Group’s swanky offices that he realises he's empty-handed, and that he left the carrier bag containing Anna’s migraine tablets on the floor of the pharmacy while he ran to the checkout to buy medication for Dean.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean falls asleep, beyond exhausted, to the sounds of Led Zeppelin’s _Kashmir,_ and his dreams are dark and twisted.

He dreams of the first man he ever loved, an older man named Alastair who had approached a sweet, fresh-faced Dean when he was barely eighteen, had taught him how to give and receive pleasure and how to explore the things he likes. He had showered Dean with compliments and treats, had wined and dined him and treated him like a prince. Teenage Dean had been so eager to explore his sexuality that he became infatuated with Alastair’s experience and dominance, and they had shared a whirlwind relationship lasting barely two years. They spent a lot of time in the bedroom and shut away in hotel rooms whenever Alastair desired to take Dean on trips away with him. Their sex was hot, heady, and their sessions usually lasted hours. Dean was certain it was love. Was so sure that it would last forever, that he and Alastair belonged with each other, despite protests from his family and friends at the age gap and the tight-fisted control that slowly started to seep into Dean’s life. In response, a petulant and headstrong Dean had rebuffed any and all concerns, distanced himself from those he loved, and had thrown himself more forcefully at Alastair, who had welcomed him with open arms and passionate kisses. He told Dean he was strong. Handsome. Arousing. Well-behaved. Obedient. Perfect.

It all ended suddenly and painfully, thanks to Dean finally discovering the full extent of Alastair’s betrayal. Doubts had been tugging at his subconscious for a while, nagging at him and putting up little red flags to indicate that something wasn't quite right in the relationship. Alastair got irritated easily with Dean, and the compliments were often bracketed by sighs of disappointment and harsh words of reprimand. Alastair praised Dean’s body, worshipped it, but enforced strict expectations on how much he should eat and exercise to keep himself in shape. He became obsessed with Dean sexually, and they rarely spent time together fully clothed. Confused, still hoping it was love, Dean had just accepted it all. Alastair was older, experienced, and Dean was learning. He just needed to learn faster.

The day it all ended is burned into Dean’s memory, and will remain there for the rest of his life.

It had taken him a further three months to extricate himself from the older man’s clutches and find somewhere to go; initially he had been too humiliated to seek help from Sam, Sam who was just starting at Stanford and had enough to worry about. But in the end, with nowhere left to turn, he turned up on his brother’s doorstep wth a duffel bag and a tearful smile, and that was the end of his relationship with Alastair.

In his dreams, Dean is naked and submitting to Alastair’s requests. They're in his old, familiar bedroom in the crappy houseshare he had only just managed to afford, and Alastair is making him gasp and moan using just his fingers. His body is carefully angled towards the webcam attached to the laptop, and in his dreams Dean is aware of the countless amounts of men watching him come apart through their computer screens. In reality, he hadn't been aware of them at all. Hadn't known that for over a year, Alastair had been secretly recording and live streaming their sexual activities to an avid online audience, and had been reaping the cash benefits of his deception. He had made a name for himself, had turned their relationship into a webcam show and had even edited some of the videos together and uploaded them to porn sites. They had been titled grotesque things like, ‘Desperate teen begs for cock’ and ‘Teaching your twink how to suck dick’. The humiliation had been almost more than Dean could handle.

He sinks deeper into the dream.

_Alastair is gripping his wrist, stroking his hair, telling him how good he's been. Dean is smiling up at him, drunk on endorphins and in love with the only man ever to shower him with attention. A hand is between his legs, stroking and massaging, fingers pressing inside him, and Dean arches ecstatically into the touch. The laptop screen is on, facing Dean, and he can see what they all see: him on his knees, moaning and begging for his pleasure, whispering words of adoration to Alastair and telling him he's the best lover he's ever had. Typed words from viewers roll up the screen; requests, instructions, comments, critiques, demands. Abuse._

_The dream shifts. Alastair is standing in Dean’s apartment, the one he lives in now, screaming at him. Berating him for ruining the carefully put-together adult film series he was halfway through, a series Dean never consented to starring in. He had thought their time together was personal, private, and that's why he really let himself go during sex. Allowed himself to feel, to moan, to beg, to cry when the moment took him, and to whisper filthy words to Alastair when he was close to his orgasms. He had no idea it was all being filmed and distributed on the internet. Alastair is furious, lived with Dean for trying to leave. Advancing towards him, gripping him by the biceps and shaking him, trying to tear his clothes off…_

_Dean is in a hotel room now, spread out on the bed and Alastair is photographing him. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to do this. He knows where the images will end up: on dirty, deviant websites frequented by dangerous men who write filthy comments and seem like they would happily rip him apart if they got their hands on him. Alastair calls him beautiful, handsome, eager, slutty, and snaps image after image of Dean in various positions, doing various things. They're in Mexico, at a five-star resort, and Dean is tanned and lean from spending two weeks sunbathing and working out on the private beach. It's been two weeks and three days since he found out about the video cameras and discovered he has an active and eager following on the internet who love watching him pleasure Alastair, who enjoy watching him moan and gasp and come, who get off on seeing his orgasm. Who get their pleasure from knowing he's being filmed without his consent. He's sickened by it. And feels utterly trapped._

_“I love you, Dean,” Alastair’s voice is like warm honey washing over him. “Spread your legs a bit more.” The camera clicks. “We could make a fortune doing this, you and I.” Another click. “Think of the places I could take you then. Lift your leg a bit.” Click. “This would seem like poverty compared to the luxury I could give you. Imagine it, Dean.” Click. “Turn to the right.” Click. “You and I, together. We could be amazing.” Click._

_He doesn't want to be here. He blinks away humiliated tears as he's told to turn over and get on his knees, and tries to scape together the courage to say no. But Alastair said that if Dean refused to do the small things asked of him, then he would destroy his passport and leave him in Mexico to fend for himself. The leer on his face was terrifying, and Dean agreed out of fear._

_“Hello, Dean.”_

_Another twist in the dream, and the walls around Dean fall away as Alastair and the hotel room shimmer and vanish. He's standing instead in the middle of the club, but the place is empty. The voice that has whispered his name is nearby, he can sense someone at his shoulder, but every time he turns the presence shifts and moves out of his field of vision. The voice was nice, low and gravelly, and he doesn't feel afraid. He wants to hear it again. He turns this way and that, searching for the speaker, until a cool hand slides into his and interlinks their fingers. Then Dean is looking up into clear blue eyes and a shy smile, and his heart leaps._

_Then everything melts away and Dean is alone in an unfamiliar room. Black walls, black floor, black ceiling, no windows and no doors. No company. No space, the walls are pulling in. No air, he can't breathe. His chest tightens as he falls to his knees, and above his head he can hear low, cruel laughter and a hand tightens painfully in his hair…_

Dean wakes with a startled yelp, still somewhat trapped within his dreams, certain someone is in his bedroom beating him over the head repeatedly with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. But the room is dark and silent save for his gasping breaths, the blackout blinds blocking every inch of light, and the feeling of being bludgeoned to death is just his headache spiralling towards the vicinity of a migraine. He has no clue what time it is; it could be the following morning, the middle of the night, or barely ten minutes since his head hit the pillow. He whimpers, disorientated, trying to get his breathing under control as the vestiges of horror from his dreams slip away and he's left feeling cold all over. He shifts uncomfortably under the sweat-damp sheets, then sees the source of the sound that jerked him awake. His phone is lit up with a message. He scrabbles for it and has to squint and blink at the screen for a moment before the blurred words come clear. The white and blue bubble signifies a Facebook private message, and he swipes dumbly at the screen a few times, the sweat on his fingertips preventing the touchscreen from recognising his request, until finally the message pops up and he can read it. And his heart thuds in his chest as he does.

**Castiel Novak: Dean, I am concerned for your wellbeing. Do you require medical attention?**

_What?_ He blinks a few times, concerned that he's hallucinating, then reads the message again. Seriously, _what_? What is going on? He vaguely remembers running into Novak at the pharmacy, definitely remembers retching and vomiting outside while Novak looked on in disgust, and wishes he could forget the fact that the guy bought him drugs to help soothe his hellish physical state. Why is the guy messaging him? Is this sarcasm, is he being laughed at? The way the message is worded leads Dean to believe that Novak isn't being genuine. Who _talks_ like that?

Irritated and feeling needled, he types a brief reply, _I'm fine. Thank you for the concern._

It's intended to be sarcastic, intended to be the end of the conversation. Dean drops his phone on the bed and covers his eyes. He should take some more pain meds, but he really needs to eat before he does that, and that means moving. Moving is _not_ happening right now. His phone blinks with another message, and he glares at it incredulously.

**Castiel Novak: You're welcome. Do you require anything?**

Dean wants to reply something catty and irritable like, ‘yes, you leaving me the hell alone because I feel like I'm dying and you're the last person I want to hear from’, but his migraine-addled brain doesn't function correctly. He doesn't have it in him to spit venom at Castiel right now, so he tries for mild humour. He types back, _Ice cream. The good kind. But I'll have to make do with water and sleep._

No reply is forthcoming after that, which ignites both relief and disappointment in Dean’s gut. He chases the disappointment back angrily, telling himself he's just exhausted and still feeling the effects of the too-strong drug he's been hit with, and his brain doesn't know up from down.

Sleep evades him. He lies in his darkened room for a long time, staring up at the ceiling and contemplating his existence. He loves his life. He really, truly does. Most of it, anyway. He loves showing off to an adoring audience and loves being the centre of attention, and most nights when he comes home he's satisfied and wants for nothing. But it's times like this, when something has gone wrong, that he longs for someone. Longs to have a warm body to cuddle up to, someone to kiss him and stroke his hair and reassure him that everything is all right. He doesn't want to be taken to fancy restaurants, doesn't want to be showered with gifts or constant praise because he's been there and done that and it ended horribly. He just wants someone to be there for him, to want him and to support him when he feels like he's falling.

He turns over in bed, sighing. His lifestyle isn't ideal when it comes to holding down a relationship. The last few people he's dated have expected him to curtail his cam shows, to cut down on the stripping, and generally become more demure and less outgoing. He walked immediately after those discussions. After Alastair, he swore to himself he would never change for anyone ever again. Love me at my best, love me at my worst kind of thing. Anyone who wants a relationship with him will have to accept him as he is, but he knows his chances of finding something like that are slim. Nobody wants to be the boyfriend of a stripper. Everyone wants to fuck a stripper, go on a few dates with a cam boy, but a serious relationship? That's a different kettle of fish altogether. Ugh. Fish. Dean’s stomach churns.

Sam still finds it hard to understand, why Dean chose the life he did. His brother knows nothing of Alastair’s deception, has no clue that there are explicit pornographic videos of Dean out there on the internet, some softcore but mostly pretty hard stuff showing him in all kinds of debauched situations, and Dean wants to keep it off his little brother’s radar. It's on the list of things that Sammy doesn't need to know. But even without that knowledge, Sam doesn't get the appeal of stripping. Can't fathom why Dean enjoys it. And sometimes, Dean himself struggles to understand why he tries it in the first place, and why he set up his webcam channel at all. Something to do with belligerently reclaiming himself, replacing the road Alastair had laid with his own experiences this time with full control over what he does and who sees him do it. It had been terrifying to film himself the first few times. He had panicked and shut down his laptop before he could really get going, remembering Alastair and all the things he had put online for the world to see.

But soon, ‘fuck you, Alastair’ became his mantra and the desire to become better than what his abusive ex had shown to the world took root and he tried camming again. He gained a few fans. Then a few more. Then a thousand more. Then it really became more than just money making, it became fun. An outlet for him, a way to express his sexuality while still maintaining his control. The men watching him are far away and can't hurt him, can't influence him or force him to do things he isn't comfortable with. It's the Dean Show, and that's why he loves what he does. His terms. Always.

He hugs a pillow to his chest miserably. He's lonely. He wants someone here to comfort him. A paralysing fear sweeps through him as the reality of what could have happened to him sets in. He could have been raped. Assaulted. Kidnapped. _Murdered._ A low whine of distress leaves his lips and he curls tighter around the pillow. He badly wishes he wasn't alone right now, that there was someone else here with him, cuddled up behind him and whispering soothing words to him. Fingers in his hair, stroking gently, an arm across his waist pulling him close. He wants somebody. His mind wanders sadly, and he finds himself wondering if Castiel Novak gives good cuddles and has to shake himself out of that thought. Of course the guy isn't a good cuddler. He's uptight and arrogant and snotty, and none of those things make for good snuggling. The cold thought reminds him that he's on his own, and that pillows will have to be an adequate substitute for a warm body and comforting words, and he tries very hard not to cry at how badly he wishes there was someone else at his side.

Being alone sucks. It really, really does.

Sleep finally drags at him again, and this time he dreams of the club and his friends, of parties and fun, and of blue eyes watching him from afar.

*

“Anna?”

“Yes, Castiel? Do you need something?”

The pretty auburn-haired woman stands at the door to Castiel’s office, smiling genially at him and leaning one hip against the frame. Without prompting, she reaches out and straightens a box file on the nearby shelf that had somehow fallen out of place and had been upsetting him for almost an hour. Anxiety, however, has him pinned behind his desk and getting up to adjust the offending item of stationary had been beyond him. Relief surges through his veins and he thanks his lucky stars once again for how much Anna understands him.

“Thank you. I was finding that… bothersome.” He nods to the file and Anna smiles knowingly. “I require… advice.”

“Oh?” She looks disconcerted. This is unfamiliar territory, giving Castiel advice, and for a moment he wonders if she will refuse. Panic grips his gut at the thought, and he white-knuckles the edge of the table. She notices, and her frown softens then disappears altogether. She approaches the desk, takes a seat opposite him, and smiles reassuringly. “Of course, Castiel. What can I do to help?”

He doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't really know what he wants to ask her. He doesn't know what to _do_ , more to the point. So, instead of saying anything, he unlocks his phone - the new handset Anna had magicked up out of thin air for him and set up so it replicated his old one perfectly - and slides it across the desk to her, open at the chat containing the messages between himself and Dean.

She raises her eyebrows and he starts, stammering and pink-cheeked, to explain.

*

The doorbell sounds again, and this time he can't ignore it. The sound is going right through him, jarring him to his very bones. He's been awake and lying on the sofa for a while, watching reruns of  _Cake Boss_ and drinking glass after glass of water from the tap. He tried covering his ears the first time the doorbell rang, but clearly the person isn't planning on going away.

Groaning, Dean drags himself off the sofa and tugs the blanket a bit tighter around his shoulders, fighting off chills. _Who_ is that, bothering him at this hour? It's… he glances at the clock… oh. Only eight PM. Still, he neither wants nor needs a visitor, and hopefully the sight of his dishevelled hair and grumpy face will be enough to deter whoever it is at the very first sight of him. It's probably Sam and Jess, characteristically not bothering to call before showing up, and he's already grumbling under his breath as he makes his way down the hallway and reaches for the handle. Damn brothers and their wives, damn their worrying and their concern, he's _fine,_ he just wants to _rest_ and be left the hell alone. He feels better than he did a few hours ago, which is saying something, but his stomach still hurts, his memory is drawing blanks left, right and centre, and his headache is still there, nagging at him in the background. A good night’s sleep should hopefully sort him out; he needs dinner but the thought of cooking anything is just too overwhelming. Potato chips and cookies will have to do. Carbs and sugar. Better than nothing.

Crowley had been mercifully understanding when Dean had called him and croaked out the story of his evening and how rotten he feels now, and when he hung up he almost wept with relief. For all the snotty Brit’s faults, he looks after Dean the best he can and had instructed him to take the following evening off as well, to recuperate. He had parroted Sam’s suggestion of the police or the hospital, and that's when Dean had hurriedly ended the call, not keen on further discussion of the issue. He isn't reporting this, end of story. No point. The cops don't tend to be interested in protecting the likes of him, not in his experience.

He yanks the door open and is about to give his visitors a piece of his mind when the words die in his throat and his lips part in shock.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

No way is the universe this cruel. Or kind? Or cruel. Oh, God.

Castiel Novak is standing there in his doorway.

He's looking for all the world like he wants to curl up and die, like he regrets knocking and that he's humiliated to even be here; he’s heart-wrenchingly handsome in a beautiful, tailored suit and expensive overcoat and his hair has been messed up by the wind. Did he look this good earlier, in the pharmacy? Dean doesn't remember, and he's instantly irrationally angry at the universe for allowing somebody this gorgeous to exist, let alone sending them to his doorstep when he's lying curled in a ball at the bottom of the barrel of his existence. He's uncomfortably aware of how sweaty and gross he is right now, especially compared to how immaculately turned out the other man is. Castiel is blushing furiously, the pink-cheeked look making him even more attractive if possible, and it takes a good thirty seconds for him to actually look up and meet Dean’s gaze. When he does, the shocking blue of his eyes makes Dean’s mouth run dry, and just before he can ask the man what the hell he’s doing here, Castiel holds up a paper bag from the expensive grocery store a few streets over. The paper is darkened in places from something damp inside it, and Dean stares at the shapes made by the marks, clueless as to what to say. He doesn't think he can say anything at all, so all he does is stare blankly at the other man while his mind plays a constant loop of white noise mixed in with ‘what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck’.

Luckily, preventing them both from standing staring at each other for the rest of the evening, Castiel eventually speaks first.

“You… you wanted ice cream.”


	7. Chapter 7

“You… you wanted ice cream.”

The words tail off towards the end of Castiel’s sentence and, if possible, he blushes even darker and averts his eyes from Dean’s. And Dean does the one thing that he probably shouldn't have: he laughs. He grips the door frame with one shaky hand and _laughs_ , and Castiel’s eyes flick back to his and widen with shock. Then what little hope there had been in them to begin with dies, and he takes a step back looking humiliated.

“I… I'm sorry, I…”

“You… actually brought me ice cream?” Incredulous, Dean can't keep the smirk from his lips. “Dude… I was _joking!_ I mean, I appreciate the sentiment but it was a _joke,_ and… did you not realise that?” His voice trails off as he realises that, actually, he sounds pretty mean. What if Castiel really _didn't_ realise?

“Evidently not.” Castiel’s voice is acidic and doesn't mesh well with the furious blush he has going on, nor with the way he shifts from one foot to the other in discomfort. “I believed you were making a request of me and it seemed… rude to ignore it. But I clearly misread your message, and… I apologise. My people skills are… somewhat rusty. And social cues are… complex. I find them difficult. I apologise. I thought… So. I'll just…” He gestures vaguely down the hall with the hand holding the bag. “Go. Yes. Goodnight, Dean.”

Cheeks flaming and, if Dean isn't mistaken, eyes looking suspiciously bright Castiel turns to bolt down the corridor and Dean almost lets him go. His mind is racing, a hundred emotions flooding through him at once. He's confused, irritated, gobsmacked, flattered, overwhelmed and mystified all in one go, but the overriding sensation is a pleasant one. He feels warm all over at the notion that Castiel actually _cared_ enough to do this. Then he's crushed by guilt as the man retreats down the hall, clearly humiliated, and the dejected slump of his shoulders is what spurs Dean to call after him.

“Wait!” He grips the door frame, and watches as Castiel halts but doesn't turn. “Uhm…” He hadn't got as far as deciding what to say next. His gaze falls to the brown paper bag. “What flavours do you have?”

“I'm sorry?” Castiel turns, still pink-cheeked but managing to inject some of his old frostiness into his tone, matching the same chilly stare that Dean remembers from their first meeting.

“I said,” Dean ventures a step or two out into the hallway, tugging the blanket tighter around himself. “What flavours do you have?” He points to the bag and Castiel looks down at it then back up at Dean wth narrowed eyes.

“I… I didn't know what you like. So I got a few. The cashier said they were all good.”

 _Did he ask the cashier for help choosing ice cream flavours for a guy he barely knows and almost definitely detests? Really? Wow._ This is getting weirder by the second, but Dean doesn't want to say anything to break the tenuous truce that seems to have settled between them. Castiel still looks like he's about to turn and bolt like a freaked out stallion, and Dean knows he needs to tread carefully.

“Oh? So what did you go for?” He edges a bit closer, eyes on the bag. Damn, now he is _really_ craving ice cream. He hopes there's cookie dough in that bag. Or mint choc chip. Or, _yes_ , peanut butter, that would be _divine._

“Um.” Castiel falters, opens the bag and peers in. “I got… Baked Alaska, Empower Mint, Peanut Butter Cup, and Karamel Sutra.” Shit. _All_ of Dean’s favourites. His mouth is practically watering at the thought. Castiel peers up at Dean with a bizarre mixture of suspicion and confusion. “Why do they all have such odd names?”

“Because, dude, it's Ben and Jerry’s. And Ben and Jerry’s is _awesome_. The best kind of ice cream ever.”

“Oh.” Castiel seems somewhat comforted. “So these are… adequate?”

“Dude, _hell_ yes!” Excited, Dean closes the gap between them and plucks the bag from the other man’s hands, peering inside and snagging a tub at random. “I think _this_ one should sort me right out.” He chances a look at Castiel. “Thanks. I mean, you didn't have to… thanks.”

Castiel avoids his gaze, staring instead at the tub in Dean’s grip, and when he eventually does look up there's a spark of something in his eyes. Is that… humour? “I figured you'd choose that one. It's very… you.”

“What do you…” Oh. He's holding Karamel Sutra. Well, knock him down with a feather, the douchebag _does_ have a sense of humour buried in there somewhere. “Oh, ha ha ha. Very funny, chuckles. I'll have you know,” Dean yanks the lid off and practically whoops at the sight of gooey caramel weaving through creamy vanilla. “That this is the best damn ice cream on the planet. _You,”_ He dips a finger in and scoops up a blob of ice cream, pointing it at Castiel before licking up the delicious sweetness. “Are missing out, my friend. Big time.”

“I am?” His tone is uncertain and he's frowning at Dean as he sucks the ice cream from his finger. If Dean isn't mistaken, he swear Castiel blushes again. “I don't indulge. You enjoy it. I should…” He gestures down the hall again, but this time doesn't move.

“Your loss.” Dean shrugs. They both seem to be playing for time, and the air between them is becoming thick. Loaded. Like one or both of them is waiting for the other shoe to drop. He studies Castiel’s face, determined to try and work him out. If the guy bought him medicine, sent him a message to check up on him, then _turned up on his fucking doorstep_ with ice cream, then maybe he isn't quite the walking bag of dicks Dean assumed him to be after their first meeting. But it doesn't change the fact that he came out with a mouthful of offensive, abusive rubbish as soon as he laid eyes on Dean. And… wait a minute. Bringing ice cream _to his door_. How did he…

“How do you know where I live?” It comes out blunt, accusatory, but Dean isn't sorry. Chills are creeping up his spine slowly; he's been followed before. Scratch that - he's been _stalked_ before. By Alastair, after they split up, then by one of Alastair’s cronies after the man wound up in jail and was no longer able to follow and harass Dean himself. The memory brings a bitter taste to his mouth and suddenly the ice cream doesn't seem so sweet.

Something must have changed in his expression because Castiel’s blue eyes widen, and he all but falls over himself to explain.

“I knew… where your building was. I'm sorry, Dean, what I did was a violation of your privacy but I was… concerned." Dean's skin prickles with apprehension. "Earlier. In the pharmacy. You were in such terrible shape that I didn't know if you'd make it home so I… made sure. That's _all_ , Dean, I promise you. I just waited until you were safely inside your building, then I left. Nothing more.” Castiel looks like a pleading puppy, all wide eyes, furrowed brow and tilted head. “I hope you believe me.”

Dean shouldn't. He _shouldn't_ because past experiences have taught him that people cannot be trusted. But for some inexplicable reason, some explanation he cannot put his finger on, he _does_ believe Castiel. It doesn't cross his mind not to.

“Alright. Fine.” He leans against the wall, suddenly awash with exhaustion. “But that doesn't explain how you found my apartment.”

Castiel colours. “My assistant. Anna. She's… very resourceful. She gave me your address.” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and Dean finds he can't stop staring. “I hope I didn't overstep a line.”

“You didn't. But… dude. I thought you hated me. Like… what the hell?” It's the tiredness, it must be. His filter is broken. He scoops out another lump of ice cream.

Castiel’s eyes snap up to meet his and there's something burning in their blue depths, something Dean can't pinpoint. A pretty blush is staining his cheeks again and Dean’s mouth runs dry. “I don't _hate_ you, Dean, never. I know what I said was… out of line. And for that I…” Castiel swallows; it looks like the words are choking him. “Apologise. Sincerely. For hurting your feelings.”

Whatever Dean had been expecting when he opened the door to find Castiel standing there, it wasn't this. He's lost for words and can only nod in response. Weeks of social-media stalking the guy, dreaming about him, trying to _forget_ about him after building up what he felt was a very certain and very accurate picture of Castiel in his head and the damn idiot has to show up and turn all that on its ass. Confused isn't the word for how Dean feels right now; he passed confused fifteen minutes back. Floored would be a better descriptor.

“I… well, um… thanks. Cas. For the apology. I accept it.” He sounds too stiff, too formal, and gives himself a mental shake. “You really didn't have to do this, you know. It was really… nice of you.”

Castiel shrugs, bashful once again. “I'm a nice person. I think. Deep down in here somewhere.” He seems to chance a smile at Dean, and it's just the right side of flirty. “All my friends and colleagues may vehemently disagree, however.”

“Well. I don't.” Dean is now the one with warm cheeks, and the air between them seems to thicken. “This was a nice thing to do. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. You've had a rough day.” Castiel frowns. “Are you certain you're all right? Do you need me to call anyone for you?”

“No, man, honestly. I'll be fine. Not my first rodeo.” It's meant to be flippant, but the joke lands flat. Castiel just stares at him thoughtfully, and for a second genuine concern flashes in his eyes. “I'll be back to my usual fantastic self in the morning, I'm sure. Lucky escape. I'll be more careful next time.” _Why_ is he trying to reassure this guy that he really isn't in need of any further help? And that he won't let it happen again? It must be something to do with the way Castiel is looking at him, all intense and probing, and Dean’s skin tingles.

“Dean. You're…” Castiel flounders, searching for a word, and Dean braces himself. “An enigma. Unlike anyone I've ever met. And I find that…” What? _Abhorrent?_ “I find that I'm somewhat... drawn to you.” Castiel rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture, and it almost looks as though he thinks he's said too much. Then he collects himself, and the cool wall comes back down, shielding the vulnerability that had flashed in his eyes for a mere second or two. “If you're certain that you'll be all right, then… I should go. I merely wanted to deliver to you what you asked for. I hope it's adequate?”

Dean can only nod, clutching the paper bag, head spinning. He wants to stop Castiel from leaving, to ask him to come in so they can maybe talk a bit and figure out why the hell the universe is intent on shoving them together. But his energy is slowly draining and he needs to sleep off the remainder of his unpleasant ordeal. And the way Castiel is staring at him is just plain unnerving; he needs time alone to process all of this.

“It's…” Perfect. “More than adequate. Thank you.” He takes a step back towards the door of his apartment, away from Castiel, and suddenly feels chilled and exposed out in the corridor in his PJs and a blanket. “Will you get home all right?”

“Of course?” Castiel looks momentarily perplexed. “I have a driver.”

He has a driver. Of course he does. Rich son-of-a-bitch probably has ten drivers all waiting on call for him… _Be nice, Dean. He's being nice. Too nice. Too nice for you…_

“Goodnight, then.” Again, Dean’s mouth is desert-dry and he swallows hard. Castiel stares at him with an unreadable expression for a moment longer, before responding.

“Goodnight, Dean. Feel better soon.”

And, before Dean can move to walk back to his apartment, Castiel reaches out and touches his bare forearm. Just lightly, just a brush of fingers against his skin, but it's there. And when their eyes meet, something very readable and very, very familiar is burning in the blue depths, something that makes his chest clench and his heart aches in sympathy. In more than sympathy: in solidarity.

 _Longing_.

*

Why did he do that? Why, why, _why_?

Castiel buries his head in his hands and exhales, hard. Why did he do _any_ of that? Showing up with ice cream was idiotic, it was humiliating, it was so far out of his comfort zone that he should have known better and never even considered it. He groans with fresh embarrassment at remembering how Dean _laughed_ at him. He laughed. In his face. His cheeks flame and tears of anger and hurt prick his eyes. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he whips it out, hoping for a message from Dean but no: it's Anna. **How did it go?**

“I'll tell you how it _went,”_ Castiel snarls savagely, swiping at the screen and hitting CALL. “I'll tell you how it went!” He repeated, shouting in her ear as soon as she answers. “He _laughed_ , Anna. He fucking laughed. _At_ me. At _me.”_

He collapses back against the plush leather seats of his town car, pinching the bridge of his nose and fighting back tears, eyes screwed shut. On the way down the stairs from Dean’s apartment the memory of the warmth, gratitude and vulnerability in the other man’s green eyes had slowly melted away, replaced by a creeping anxiety which had in turn descended into a full-blown, panic- and humiliation-streaked meltdown by the time his driver slammed the car door shut behind him. His palms are sore from digging his own fingernails into them, and he very badly needs to be back home in the safety of his organised, meticulous, spotless apartment with its calming colour scheme and his familiar possessions surrounding him. This car journey is going to be hellish, especially since the traffic has decided to up the ante tonight. It could take him an hour to get home. _God_. This was such a stupid idea.

“Oh, Castiel, I'm sorry.” Anna’s voice is laced with sympathy. “I didn't think that would happen. What else did he say?”

Castiel scrubs a hand over his face, feeling too warm and chilled all at one. His hands are numb. “I can barely recall. But he liked the flavours of ice cream I chose, so I suppose it wasn't a total failure.”

“He liked them?” Anna sounds a bit thrown. “He took them?”

“Of course.” Irritated, Castiel glares out of the window at the passing lights of shop window displays. “What would I do with four tubs of sugar and carbs?”

“I don't know, Castiel. Eat them, perhaps?” She's unsuccessfully trying to hide a giggle, and Castiel relaxes a minutia. She always knows how to soothe him. “Talk me through exactly what happened.”

He tells her in angry, broken sentences, some of which he has to bite the end off of because he's too humiliated. But as he gets to the part where Dean asked if he hated him, he almost feels choked up. Something in Dean’s eyes had shaken him, made him feel raw and overexposed under the scrutiny, and he hadn't liked it. It was as though Dean was looking right into his soul, trying to peel back his carefully crafted icy exterior to get to the soft, nervous, vulnerable part of him that Castiel guards so viciously. Nobody gets to see that side of him, not Anna or Balthazar or _anyone_. Especially not Dean, who he feels increasingly drawn to and simultaneously frightened by. No, that isn't quite accurate. He isn't frightened of Dean, he's frightened by his feelings towards the other man. Interest and intrigue and curiosity war with something Castiel hasn't felt towards another person in a very, very long time: desire. And not just the sexual kind. He desires Dean in more ways than just physical. He wants to know him, to spend time with him, to study him and work him out and find out what makes the beautiful, unattainable man tick.

But no. He can't. He should be ashamed of himself for feeling this way. Modest and subtlety and intellect are things he values highly, and Dean is… Dean takes his clothes off for a living. What kind of person has such little self-respect that they feel the need to do that?

“Castiel. You shouldn't be so judgmental. You don't know him, remember? There could be any number of reasons why he does what he does.”

Oh. Apparently, he had been speaking aloud, and he blushes at the thought. How much of his inner monologue had he spilled to Anna down the phone line?

“Besides.” A note of mischief creeps into Anna’s voice. “Maybe he enjoys what he does.”

“That's exactly the problem! How can he enjoy being leered at all day by people like…” Castiel waves a hand. “ _Them._ ”

“Like who?” The hesitation in Anna’s voice shows she knows she's close to pushing her luck. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Castiel, but… didn't you and Gabriel go to his club? And Balthazar?”

“ _Yes!_ But that was _different_!” He's firing her. She's so fired. “I was _under duress_!”

“ _You_ might have been, but the others weren't. They were having fun. Albeit while objectifying the people entertaining them and serving them drinks, but didn't you say the place was nice enough? Upmarket? Not, as you put it, a ‘sleazy dive’?”

“What’s your point?” Castiel snaps, nettled. “You're fired, by the way.”

“Of course I am, Castiel.” Her cool voice soothes his raw nerves, and he knows as well as she does that there's no weight to his words at all. He would be lost without her. “My point is that maybe there isn't anything inherently wrong with Dean’s lifestyle. It's just different to yours and, you know, maybe you could stand to be a bit more open-minded? He could be good for you.”

“I am open-minded!”

“Of course you are.” There's that tone again, that placating, soothing, _mocking_ tone. He sighs, slides down a little in his seat then readjusts himself, afraid of wrinkling his jacket. “But maybe you could try being a _bit_ more open-minded, and see where that takes you. Hmm?”

“Possibly. Maybe.” He glares out of the window. “I don't even know why we’re having this conversation. Why did you call me?”

“ _You_ called _me,_ Castiel.” She reminds him, cheerfully. “To talk about your latest infatuation.”

“Infatu- Anna! I am not-! _Anna!_ ” Fired! So fucking fired. He drops his phone, a nervous habit that has apparently grown leaps and bounds since Dean Fucking Winchester decided to make an appearance in his life. He’ll end up keeping Apple in business if he carries on this way. He scoops it up from the floor and fumbles to turn it the right way around. “I don't care for him. One bit.”

“Fine, fine, but you know what they say? Denial isn't just a river in Egypt…”

“Goodnight, Anna.” Then, after a moment’s pause, “I haven't disturbed you, have I?”

“No, not at all Castiel. I'm just finishing up dinner with my cousin Jessie. But I'll see you tomorrow, all right? Don't worry too much. Go and work out, or watch the Discovery Channel.” She _always_ knows what to suggest to calm him down. “I'll see you in the morning. Oh, and Castiel?”

“Yes? What?”

“It doesn't sound like it went badly, not to me.” He can almost hear her soft smile. “It sounds like it went really well. I think he appreciated the gesture.” Castiel says nothing, instead focusing on the glimmer of hope burning inside him. “Goodnight, Castiel.”

She hangs up, and Castiel rests his chin on his hand, elbow propped up on the door, and stares out into the night. He likes Anna. She makes life less complicated. He sighs, his breath misting up the car window and he wipes it away, leaving a smear which makes him frown. He thinks of Dean, alone in his apartment, hopefully fast asleep now and on his way to feeling better. He thinks of his own apartment, ten minutes away now if the traffic stays light, and shivers. As safe and comforting as his place is, sometimes it does feel a little… cold. Empty. He should get a cat… ugh, _no_. All the fur and the hairballs, and the litter box, and the _smell_ … No, Castiel does not need a cat. He's just _fine_ on his own.

Just fine.

His phone beeps at him, requesting his attention - he had received a Facebook private message while on the call to Anna. Heart leaping hopefully, he swipes at the screen. It's a photo of an empty pot of Karamel Sutra, held by the edge with sticky fingers. Fingers that look like they could do a _lot_ of different things…

**Dean John Winchester: Thanks, Cas.**

Then, following the two words, there's an emoji of a little green heart.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, _that_ was an epic case of writer's block. But I won the battle, it's now safely back in the cage and I definitely got my Sugar Me Sweet mojo back. Sorry this is short, but it's setting up for the next few chapters.

“No.”

“Castiel…”

“No.”

“Oh, _Cassie_!”

“Balthazar, no.”

“Gabriel, help me out here! It's for his own good.”

“Don't bring Gabriel into this! What part of ‘no’ is escaping your understanding?”

“But Cas-”

“ _No!_ ”

Cutlery clatters down onto a table as someone lets out an impatient sigh, then a chair scrapes back and a jacket is grabbed from the back of the chair.

“I can't believe you just invited me here to… to… _coerce_ me!”

Scuffling, someone putting on shoes. Balthazar sighs, finishes the wine in his glass and gets to his feet, following his friend as he stalks indignantly towards the door.

“Cassie. Darling, I'm sorry. Please. Don't leave, come and finish your meal.”

Castiel pauses with his hand on the doorknob and scowls back at his friend.

“Please. The lobster is imported. And I won't bother you another minute about him, I swear. I was just looking out for your wellbeing, as any concerned friend would. Please, come back to the table.”

“Come on, Cassie!” From the kitchen, Gabriel’s mischievous tones ring out to the tune of a clinking wine bottle. “He's right! The lobster _is_ imported, and we know you love it!”

“More than I love the pair of you,” Castiel gripes, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it neatly, them bending down to remove his shoes. He aligns them again perfectly beside the door and stands, then bends again to adjust the left one. There, _now_ they're straight. He follows Balthazar back through the plush, elaborate apartment which to its credit does have a wonderful park view and therefore commands the nauseating price tag, and takes his seat again at the table. His hands tremble, just a little, and he picks up his Sauvignon and sips it to hide the nervous quiver. He's all on edge after telling his friends in short, staccato sentences about Dean and he really should have known better. Now, seemingly, all they want to do is push him even closer to the cheerful, handsome, completely unsuitable other man.

“There now.” Gabriel soothes, refilling all their glasses. “Much better. “I have to hand it to you, Castiel, perhaps abstinence does have its rewards. In the shape of one young, hot-”

“I thought you were going to bother me no more about Dean,” Castiel cuts him off, spearing a head of asparagus with his fork.

“Ah, but that was Balthazar who made that promise, not me. I, on the other hand, need more details.” Gabriel lounges back in his chair. “When did you last hear from your crush?”

“He _isn't_ my-”

“When did you last hear from the man you are absolutely _not_ crushing on?” Gabriel corrects himself loudly. “Spill the beans, Cassie. How can I help you if I don't have all the juicy info?”

“Yesterday.” Castiel confesses irritably.

“Phone call? Text message? Carrier pigeon?”

“Facebook. Why does it matter?”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. General conversation.”

“And before that?”

Castiel considers, and watches Gabriel crack open a lobster claw with rapture. Balthazar is uncharacteristically quiet, watching their exchange with interest. “The evening before.”

“More ‘general conversation’, I take it?”

“Yes - Gabriel, what point are you attempting to make?”

Gabriel shrugs nonchalantly. “None. It just sounds like you like the guy more than you're letting on, if you ask me. Any plans for your next date? Not that stalking and ice cream doesn't sound like a great _first_ date…”

“Gabriel! No!”

“What's your little plaything up to tonight?” Balthazar delicately takes the cocktail stick from his martini and eats the olive. “Just for interest purposes, you understand. I'm assuming you know, of course, but I could be mistaken?” His little smirk says he knows he most certainly isn't.

Castiel doesn't answer. He knows exactly where Dean is tonight. They had exchanged messages while he was in the car on his way to Balthazar’s for dinner. Dean had asked what he was doing, Castiel had told him, then Dean had sent him a picture of himself: a selfie, taken behind the bar at _Stairway to Heaven_. It was captioned ‘no rest for the wicked!’ Castiel had blushed scarlet as he looked at the picture; Dean’s green eyes were glittering and crinkled at the corners, and his smile showed of perfectly straight teeth. His lips looked just… Castiel had locked his phone and shoved it in his pocket with no clue at all how to respond to the message and, flustered, had spent the rest of the journey nervously winding his fingers together and trying to relax his tense shoulder muscles. Dean is working tonight. Which means, most likely, standing on a stage and taking his clothes off. Two weeks ago, Castiel would have found that, in his words, abhorrent, the idea of a bunch of men and women paying to leer at Dean and throw money at him. But now? All he can think about it the miles of tanned, honeyed skin hiding beneath the other man’s clothes, and his mouth runs a little drier at the thought.

“Yes,” he hears himself saying, against his will. “I know what he's up to tonight.”

*

Dean is fully charged, pumped with adrenaline and excited to get out and do his thing in front of what seems to be a particularly enthusiastic crowd tonight. He hasn't danced in almost a week; most of his time has been taken up planning Pride weekend with Crowley, and now it's less than a week away. Six days, to be precise. Dean _loves_ a good party, and their Pride celebrations are sure to be just that: a damn good party. He checks himself in the mirror and tweaks his hair a little. There. Perfect.

“Gorgeous as always,” Michael appears behind him and plonks a kiss on Dean’s cheek. He smells like cherries and whiskey. “They're wild tonight, Deano. Hope you've got your big boy panties on.”

“Always.” He adjusts his cowboy shirt and shimmies his hips a little; the chaps should come off just fine, but last time he wore them he had a little costume mishap and had to wiggle out of them as opposed to ripping them off. Not quite the same, but he's sure he made it look sexy nonetheless. The movement makes him wince - Michael raises a brow at him - and he grins to cover it then turns away. He's sore. He did a two-hour public cam show last night, followed by an hour for a regular who requested he fuck himself on a variety of different toys, in a selection of different positions. As a result, his thighs ache, his biceps are sore, and between his legs…

“Squirrel? Stage is calling.” Crowley materialises as if from nowhere, swirling a glass of cognac in his hand and appraises Dean critically. “Handsome as always. Knock them dead, cowboy.”

It sounds just plain wrong, said in his dry British accent. Dean laughs quietly to himself and heads out towards the stage, the cloying scent of perfume, aftershave and alcohol already assaulting his sense of smell.

_Work the crowd, Dean. Make them want you. Earn that dollar._

As the opening chords of his song, Def Leppard’s ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ ring throughout the club, he relieves another dancer, a meek and under-confident new guy who he barely knows, from the stage and stands, hands on hips, surveying the scene with a lewd smirk on his face and waiting for his cue to kick in. And just as it does, something happens to Dean.

He completely forgets what he's supposed to do. His mouth runs dry, all rational thought falls from his mind, and he's paralysed.

To his left, is a gaggle of women, illuminated under a spotlight with cocktails in their hands and gleeful cries leaving their lips. And in the midst of them all, looking like he wants to melt into the ground and die, is Sam. Floppy-haired, pink-cheeked, and fervently avoiding his gaze. Fuck. _What_ is his little brother doing here and _why_ didn't he call?

But that isn't what holds his attention in such a vice-like grip.

Over to his right at the table right in front of the stage, sandwiched in between the pretty blonde British guy and the bachelor who now must be married, looking as though he's been dragged here at knifepoint, is someone he hasn't seen in almost a fortnight. Someone he's dreamed about every night and exchanged Facebook messages verging on flirtations most evenings. And mornings, come to think of it… Castiel. Wide-eyed, terrified, and utterly sex on legs, Castiel Novak.

*

Dean misses his cue. Then misses his second. And all the while, Castiel watches him with flushed cheeks and wide eyes, and he can't help but notice that the Brit has his hand in Castiel’s lap, gripping his hand surely tight enough to bruise, and Castiel is gripping back with both of his. It's a sight that has Dean staring for a myriad of reasons. On one hand, he's thrilled that Cas is here. Thrilled and a little nervous. He's come to accept that he's crushing on the guy - although still cannot understand _why_ \- after their fortnight of exchanging messages and, in Dean’s case, pictures of himself and his daily life, but seeing Castiel _here_ in his domain, his playground, his _work?_ It's jarring and he can't wrap his head around it. Neither can Castiel, from the look on his face. He looks utterly freaked, but the longer Dean stares at him some of his apprehension seems to melt and he almost seems to manage a smile. Dean hasn't seen him smile much yet, and he bets he looks great when he laughs… But on the other hand, quite frankly, he's freaked. What the hell is Castiel playing at? He hates strip clubs, strippers, and everything associated with them, Dean has ascertained that much. Well, he did say he _didn't_ hate Dean, and his behaviour since then certainly backs up that statement, but it's certainly not an environment the other man is comfortable in. What does he want? A show? Clearly. But after that? Will he leave right away, having had his fill of watching Dean in nothing but a grin and a g-string? If so, that leaves him feeling a bit cold and empty for a reason he cannot fathom. Or, alternatively, will he want to stay and chat after Dean has done his thing and _that_ fills him with even more dread. What will he do? Say? Will he excuse what he does for a living, hell no. Not to appease Cas or any other living soul. And he can't deal with Castiel suddenly having an attack of the feelings and attempting some saviour routine. Men have tried that on Dean before, failing to realise that he loves his life and his job, and he isn't a prize to be won by the man who offers him the biggest payout or promises him the earth. He's had the money and the high life, and he would rather have the freedom, thanks all the same. Is this maybe some warped test, to see how Dean reacts to him? It doesn't look like it, from how nervous the older man seems and how he's already got three empty glasses on the table next to him and a waiter approaching with a fourth. If he gets hammered and has his ass dragged out of here…

“Winchester!”

A furious-sounding British voice hisses from the shadows behind him and he jolts from his trance, mesmerised by the blue of Castiel’s eyes, and realises he's standing on a stage surrounded by lights, music and people, and he's making an idiot of himself. Crap. What part is the song at now? He manages to get in time with the music and goes through a few of his basic moves, his head spinning. He's now in a rock and a hard place, in his mind. Castiel is here, clearly here to see him, and every instinct he has is telling him to put on the best show he can for the guy, to pull out all the stops and every trick in the book. He knows some pretty spectacular ones. But on the other hand, his little brother is ten feet away and he doesn't really want to scar him for life. But Sammy knew what he was getting himself into by coming here, surely knows what Dean is like onstage from his wild stories and photos on Facebook (his Instagram is thankfully way under his brother’s radar). He glances at Sam, who turns beet red, then over at Cas who inhales sharply and who’s eyes darken to a pretty shade of sapphire.

Fuck it. Cas came here for a show, and he's damn well getting one. The next song begins, a bouncy cover of _It’s Raining Men_ , and a slow smile spreads over Dean’s lips. Hold on, Castiel Novak, you're in for the ride of your life.

*

Castiel wakes up slowly the next morning, feeling warm and relaxed and calmer than he has in a long time. The pure white bedding feels like clouds beneath him and he snuggles down happily, pleased to see his digital alarm clock only reads 6:55am. It's Sunday, he can sleep in. He closes his eyes and feels the edges of sleep approaching, mere seconds before his senses register something different. There's a scent in the air that shouldn't be there. Rich, strong, maybe a little bitter… coffee. Good coffee, at that. And, beneath that, bacon. Toast too. It smells incredible and his mouth is watering already. But… wait a second…

What on _earth…_

There's someone else in his apartment. Someone he distinctly does not remember inviting in. He casts around for his phone but can't see it anywhere, and anxiety swells within him. He sits up, pulling the sheets around him protectively, and can't hold in the whine that slips from his lips at the discomfort the movement causes. He's _sore_. His thighs burn like he's run a marathon, and his hips ache too. He glances down at himself and is shocked to see dark smudges encircling his left wrist and a graze on the palm of his right, and beneath it where it rests on the stark white bedsheets something else is wrong. The sheets smell different. They smell like sweat and someone else’s cologne, and…

“Heya, Cas.”

There's a sound from the doorway, and Castiel almost jumps a mile. Standing in the doorway is the most drop-dead gorgeous vision Castiel has ever seen, dressed in loose sweatpants and a Henley and holding a tray crammed with a variety of glasses, mugs and plates. Dean smiles lopsidedly and loiters in the door for a second before approaching the bed and setting the tray down on the bottom of it. And Castiel just gawks. Dean Winchester is in his apartment; Dean Winchester is in his _bedroom_ , Dean Winchester has made breakfast; Dean Winchester is inches away from him and he's _naked_ under these sheets. He pulls them tighter, his heart pounding, and his brain stops short-circuiting long enough for him to register that the smell of bacon and eggs and pancakes and sweet coffee is overwhelmingly delicious.

Dean perches on the edge of the bed and hands Castiel a steaming latte, made fresh from his expensive coffee maker. It smells like heaven and tastes even better. It takes Castiel a second to work out that Dean just called him Cas. He's never had any nickname beyond Cassie, which Balthazar adopted in their youth and everyone has just followed suit. Cas is new. He likes Cas. Out of habit, he reaches over and straightens his phone where it sits on the bedside table. He must have knocked it in the night. Dean’s eyes follow his movement, but thankfully he refrains from commenting. Cas doesn't want to talk about his OCD, not not. Not yet. He feels like he's missing something, like there's a rather large elephant sitting at the bottom of his bed which neither of them feel like mentioning. But he can't think what the elephant is, or what it represents. So he looks to Dean for guidance.

Dean looks pensive and nervous, but also excited in a jittery kind of way. Suddenly, the ache in Castiel’s thighs, the mild bruising on his wrists and the mess of tangled sheets all make sense as very intense memories come rushing back, along with an instant and very strong sense of panic. His hands start to shake and, looking a little alarmed, Dean takes the coffee cup from him and sets it down.

“We should talk, Cas. About last night.”


	9. Chapter 9

“It's OK, Cas.” Dean hastens to reach over and try to take Castiel’s hand, seeing the look of utter panic flit across the other man’s face, but it's the wrong thing to do. Castiel shifts away from him on the bed, fighting to untangle himself from the sheets, suddenly needing to put space between the two of them. Dean is so close to him, so close he can smell the remains of his cologne from the night before. And with that scent, splintered memories rear their heads, taunting him, flashing like snapshots in his mind before disappearing like smoke into nothing.

_Dean, handsome and confident onstage, Castiel his only focus as he goes through his routine and slowly strips off his clothing with a teasing smile; eventually he's wearing nothing but his boots and underwear and a lewd wink. Dean tossing his shirt to Castiel, Castiel catching it mutely, stunned and weirdly flattered. His friends laughing, either side of him, teasing him in good nature and catcalling at Dean up on the stage. Dean being brilliant; handsome, gorgeous, talented, mesmerising, everything Castiel thought he would never get to be this close to. The taste of expensive whiskey, warm and oaky on his tongue…_

“I'm not gonna hurt you, man.” A concerned frown has descended onto Dean’s face and he stands, backing away with his palms raised in submission. “I just wanna make sure you're OK. Talk to you about the shit that happened, because man, that was so rough. I didn't know what the hell to do. Tell me I did the right thing by staying, Cas. Tell me that at least.”

“You should go.” Freeing himself from the sheets, Castiel gets out of bed and stumbles a little, reaching for the nearby desk to steady himself. He can't answer Dean, can't even think straight. “Thanks. For breakfast. But you shouldn't stay. I shouldn't keep you.”

“You ain't keeping me from shit.” Dean doesn't look swayed in the slightest. “And I can’t leave until I know you're all right.”

“I'm… _ouch_.” Castiel’s palm connects with the edge of the desk and he winces, looking down at it in consternation. The graze doesn't look deep but it's painful. There's one particular gash that does look like it might need a stitch; it's oozing fresh red blood and the scraped flesh around it is black and blue with bruising. Two fingernails on the same hand are scuffed and broken too, and Castiel stares in confusion. Did he fall over last night? In between the club, the car, and his apartment? But something nags at him, tells him that he didn't just go from the club to his town car and up to his apartment. Something twisted and sick curls in his stomach, something that might be humiliation but is too tinged with panic for him to be sure.

“Here,” Dean is at his side with a handful of paper towels, whisked from somewhere, and he presses them gently to Castiel’s damaged palm. “That looks like it hurts.” He cups his hand gently around Castiel’s and presses the paper towels in firmly, staunching the flow of blood, and the touch of his skin is familiar in a way Castiel hadn't known until last night. More memories swim before his eyes as he glances up, freaked, at Dean’s concerned face.

_Someone taking his hand and pulling, pulling him in towards them. The scent of motor oil and Jack Daniels combined with cherry body oil. Dean, sexy and hot and smiling at him, wanting him closer. Whispering in his ear how glad he is to see him and how he hoped Castiel enjoyed the show. Feeling Dean’s firm chest against his, the wall at his back, and the bitter taste of panic and bile rising like a tidal wave in his throat… The night air filling his lungs as he pushed open the emergency exit, gasping, needing to get away. Running…_

“What do you remember?” Dean’s voice is gentle, washing over Castiel, and he shakes his head mutely. His hands are still warm and comforting and it's helping, helping him remember. As Castiel stares up into his soft green eyes, he notices a mark on Dean’s cheekbone. A bruise, half-formed and sore-looking, and he brings his other hand up to touch it, stopping only an inch away. Dean doesn't pull back, just stares back at Cas with something unreadable in his eyes. It's almost like sympathy but not quite.

“Who did… how did you…”

“It's fine, Cas. It's nothing. Don't worry about it. Tell me what you remember.”

“But…” He blinks and his vision swims again.

_A nameless, unknown street in the dark, someone calling his name. Feeling chilled to the bone despite the balmy night, his skin clammy and sweat-drenched. The scent of the club still heavy on his clothes, the sound of footsteps running after him. Running, and running hard, his lungs aching and legs burning as the desperate need to get away takes over and his body shuts down and goes into flight mode. Turning down another unfamiliar street, lost, cheeks wet with desperate tears. Someone grabbing him, hands on his shoulders, his arms, his own voice sounding alien and hollow as he screamed words he can't recall…_

“I remember…” _You. I remember you._ “We left the club…”

“Yeah, we did Cas. Well, you left and I followed you. What else do you remember?

It's becoming difficult to speak. Castiel’s mind is fogged with hints and stills of last night, as though he's being drip-fed the plot of a movie he didn't pay attention to. Dean lifts the paper towels from his hand and they both stare down; the bleeding has stopped.

_Dean's hands on his shoulders, an arm around his back, a warm hand cupping his jaw… Lying down on the soft sheets of his bed, lying dazed and exhausted, staring up as Dean strips for the second time, this time with no care or finesse, all the while shooting Castiel furtive, nervous looks…_

“Dean…” Cas’ voice sounds thin and far away to his own ears. He's conscious of the other man moving closer and he backs further into the corner, gripping the edge of the desk tightly despite the pain in his palm. “Last night, did we… um… did we…”

“Did we… no!” Dean looks horrified at the mere suggestion. “Cas, no, of course we didn't. You were in such a state… jeez, you really think I'd-”

“No, no, of course not.” He needs to sit down, he feels like his legs are going to collapse beneath him. He's flooded with relief at the knowledge that he and Dean didn't do anything physical together, but behind that relief is a hint of… is that… disappointment? It can't be. Castiel shudders, and his legs give out a little as he scrabbles at the wall for purchase. Dean seems to realise this and reaches for him, and for some inexplicable reason Castiel doesn't fight him. A warm, familiar arm slides around his waist and supports him, helping him back to the bed and sitting him down, and Castiel buries his face in his hands, breaking out in a cold sweat borne of panic. Dean sits next to him and rubs his back gently, talking in muted tones to reassure him, but Castiel can't really make out the words. His sense of control over his world is spiralling, taking with it his all vestiges of calm and reason. He digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and remembers.

*

**Eight hours earlier…**

The emergency fire door to _Stairway to Heaven_ crashes open and Castiel stumbles out onto the street, bracing himself on the outside wall with one hand and scrabbling at his throat to loosen his tie with the other. The club had become too hot, too stifling, Dean had been too close and his senses were reacting in ways he hasn't succumbed to in years, and it's all just _too much_. He shouldn't even be here, should never have allowed Gabriel to coax him from the safety of Balthazar’s apartment. He knew they didn't just plan to have a drink at the bar and watch from a distance, a fear that had been confirmed only moments after they entered the club as a burly bouncer with the name tag **Lafitte** had escorted them to a table at the front of the stage. That's when his paralysing panic had set in, and it hasn't let up since. He had been trapped, pinned, and the only time he hadn't felt close to tears of hateful fear is when Dean’s green eyes were on him. Dean’s performance had been flawless, and he had told him so vehemently at the bar later, buzzed on alcohol and anxiety, probably too forward and too nervous, but the guy had given him that megawatt smile and dragged him to one side, to a corner so they could talk. And it was then, when he was pressed up so close to Dean and knew without a shadow of a doubt that the other man wanted something more than his compliments, that the panic set in.

His heart is racing wildly and he glances both ways down the alley, disoriented and confused. He hasn't got a clue which way leads back to the bright street where their town car is waiting, and his body isn't giving him time to think about it. Every muscle is wound tight, every sense on edge, and a sound behind him makes him back away from the door and into the street in trepidation. He's drunk, he knows he is, and it's unravelling his iron-clad control. From the shadows nearby, something moves and scuffles under a dumpster and that's when his shredded nerves crack and fail, and he takes off in panic. Running, running as fast as he can go the end of the alley in panic, fear driving him, and when he reaches a chain link fence the only option is left down another darkened street. Then right down another, and as his feet pound on the farms below him he hears someone shout way behind him, hears the sound of boots on the ground matching his own. He's being chased. His internal monologue pipes up, a constant and panicked litany of _no, no, no_ and he turns another corner to come face-to-face with another dark street.

He runs for what feels like hours, the footsteps behind him getting closer with each corner he turns, until a chain-link fence brings him to a halt and he crashes headlong into it. Behind him, the person chasing him comes to a stop, panting and gasping, and blinded by fear Castiel takes a swing at him. His fist connects, not hard but hard enough to at least startle the guy who lets out a squawk of surprise and stumbles. Hoping it's enough for him to make his escape, Castiel tries to move past him but strong arms Coe up and grip him, wrapping around his upper arms and dragging him to a halt.

“Cas! Stop!” The voice is familiar, but Castiel twists violently in the arms holding him and drives an elbow back into the ribs of the man holding him. “Stop it- ah, fuck!”

The second attempt at elbowing his attacker hits its mark and the guy releases him; Castiel tries to run again but trips on something unseen and goes down hard, only just breaking his fall with his hands. Pain sears through his palms and he drags himself to his feet, only to be caught tightly by both wrists and he's yanked around to face the man holding him. In the dark, he can't make out features and the pounding of blood in his ears prevents him from hearing clearly. The voice in his head is screaming now.

“Castiel! Cas, it's me! It's Dean! Cas, what the fuck is going on?”

Somehow, through the fog of fear and _run, run, run_ in Castiel’s mind, Dean’s voice is seeping through. Rich, warm, totally freaked out but present and focused. His hands are like vices on Castiel’s wrists, holding him tight no matter how hard he tries to twist away.

“Cas! It's me, it's Dean! You gotta calm down, man, come on. I'm not gonna hurt you.”

The guy sounds freaked as hell, and Castiel can't catch his breath. Dark spots are creeping into his vision and he sways where he stands, his head clouding and chest tightening in panic. He doesn't know where he is, what street he's on or even what town he's in, he can't remember how he got here or why, and all he can see is the green of Dean’s eyes as the moonlight catches them just right. His struggling becomes weaker and he staggers, the dark spots becoming larger and a wave of nausea choking him. He can't breathe, can't see, can't think, and the last thing he knows is Dean’s body warm and strong at his side, guiding him to the ground and kneeling beside him as Castiel passes out.

The rest of the night goes by in tattered, broken moments where Castiel zones in and out and isn't really present at all. A taxi ride to his apartment, slurring his address out to Dean as he shies away from the germ-ridden inside door of the yellow cab, pressing himself close to Dean in reaction. The doors to the elevator in his building closing, and barely being able to stand up; Dean’s arm warm around his waist and his own thrown over broad shoulders as Dean supports his weight and keeps him on his feet. Vomiting in the bathroom and a cool towel being pressed to his head, steady hands rubbing circles into his back and down his shaking arms. Vomiting again, alcohol and bile, and in spite of his current condition he tries to push Dean away, tries to reach for the cleaning products to sanitise the bathroom after making such a mess of it and Dean removes them in alarm. Castiel is sick again.

Lying in bed some time later and watching Dean undress, too tired to ask what he's doing but feeling like he already knows. Listening to the other man tell him firmly that he isn't leaving him alone, not yet, that he's staying and won't take no for an answer. As if Castiel could even manage a protest. He's about as likely to scale Everest right now.

But when Dean lies down next to him in his boxers and t-shirt, respectfully on top of the covers, Castiel does manage to choke out one word before exhaustion drags him under.

“Why?”

“Why?” Dean turns on his side and their gazes lock for just a moment before Castiel’s eyes slide closed. Dean smells warm and comforting, like leather and whiskey and just a hint of musky sweat. And right before he drops off, he swears he feels a feather-light touch to his cheek. “Because you looked after me, Cas. Now it's my turn to look after you. I ain't going nowhere.”

*

“Nice digs,” Dean says softly, conversationally, from the kitchen. He's clattering about with the espresso machine, each and every sound going right through Castiel, but he can't bring himself to tell Dean to stop. He's remaking breakfast and calling it ‘brunch’ - a word Castiel is vaguely familiar with thanks to Balthazar and his using late-morning breakfasts as an excuse to have a mimosa - as Castiel and his panic attack meant the man’s first attempt at culinary wizardry had gone cold and unappealing. This, however, smells heavenly and Castiel’s mouth is watering.

“Thank you,” he replies demurely, watching Dean make some concoction for cinnamon French toast. Dean’s hands are quick and nimble, and he's enjoyable to observe as he cooks. It's unfamiliar territory, having someone else in his apartment, and every atom in Castiel’s body is screaming at him to go into the kitchen and follow Dean around, cleaning up after him and straightening everything out in his wake. That's how Castiel cooks, when he rarely does: he does one thing, then cleans up after himself. Then another, then tidies up. It means meals take a painfully long time to prepare, and by the time he actually sits down to eat his food is normally cold and he's miserable, feeling like he's wasted his efforts and is incapable of even making dinner for himself. Hence why he dined out so often or gets take-out. It's easier on his nerves, and he doesn't have to worry about his kitchen being in disarray.

Dean had been oddly understanding when he came to in the bedroom an hour earlier. A panic attack had ripped through him as the memories of the previous night swamped his senses, and the next thing he knew he was lying on the bed again with Dean’s arm strong and secure around his shoulders, while warm words of reassurance trickled into his subconscious. Exhaustion had prevented him from pushing Dean away, and as they lay quietly on the bed together in the mid-morning sun Castiel was reminded of how it felt to have someone there to catch him when he fell. How nothing felt quite so out of control, and the panic disorder that plagues him and rules his life recedes when there's someone in the background to look out for him. Waking up in the warmth of someone's arms feels a hell of a lot better than waking up on the floor of his bedroom, cold and alone and feeling worthless and unworthy of anyone's affection, which is how most of his episodes end these days. He's in no doubt that this is a one-time thing, that Dean probably just felt sorry for him and is dying to finish eating and get the hell home, but right now it feels good. He feels exhausted beyond belief and having the sights and sounds of someone else in his cold, empty apartment is bliss on his frayed nerves. It shouldn't be. He should be freaking out again, panicked at having someone he barely knows disrupt his things and invade his personal space. But… but…

 _But it's Dean_ , his mind supplies without warning. _And Dean is different. You can trust Dean_.

“Can't trust anyone,” Cas murmurs into his palm; he's on the sofa with his head tipped back against the cushions and he's pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache. His upsetting and unshakable habit of accidentally voicing his inner monologue has struck again, and Dean glances up from what he's doing.

“You can't what?” He frowns in consternation. “Didn't catch that, Cas, what did you say?”

“Nothing of import. I apologise, Dean, I didn't mean to distract you.” It's a feeble apology in the grand scheme of things; Castiel has way more to apologise for than distracting Dean from his cooking. But he doesn't really know where to begin, and deep down he's afraid how the other man will react if he brings up last night again. Just as he's starting to thank Dean - for the hundredth time - for helping him in the bedroom and for offering to cook once more, the chiming of his doorbell rudely interrupts him and he smothers a groan. He doesn't want any more company. Doesn't want anyone here, wants to be alone.

 _Alone?_ His subconscious pipes up once more, not mocking but genuinely curious. _Or alone with Dean_?

“Silence.” He cuts off the voice in his head with a hiss, one that makes Dean raise his eyebrows in concern, then hoists himself up from the sofa and hits the intercom to stop the infernal bleeping that's causing his head to throb painfully. He thinks he knows who it is already, and if he's right then he's not going to be able to get away with dismissing them.

“What?”

“Cassie, darling, let me in. I'm worried sick down here.”

Castiel drops his head to rest on the wall beside the intercom. He doesn't have the energy for this. From the kitchen, Dean raises an eyebrow at him as he cracks eggs into a pan.

“My friend. Balthazar. He's come to… check up on me.”

“Ah.” Dean nods in comprehension. “The British one. Yeah, I remember him.”

Against his better judgment but too exhausted to argue, Castiel buzzes Balthazar into his building and waits for him to climb the stairs. Sure enough, less than five minutes later, there's a knock at the door and Castiel pulls it open to reveal his friend looking pensive and concerned, brow unfamiliarly creased.

“Castiel.” He draws him into a brief hug, patting him on the back before releasing him and taking him firmly by the shoulders. “You had us going out of our minds with worry. What on earth happened last night? Gabriel thought…”

And Balthazar glances towards the kitchen and trails off. Maybe it was the sound of Dean knocking a pan against a ceramic bowl that drew his attention, or maybe the scent of French toast and coffee and warm, home-cooked food. Maybe it was feeling a pair of intense green eyes on him that did it, the prickly sensation of being watched. Or maybe it was the way Castiel glanced surreptitiously back into his apartment at Dean, Dean who is watching them interact while feigning indifference. But either way, as his lips part in shock and he returns his gaze to Castiel’s clear, confused blue eyes, for the first time in his life, Balthazar is lost for words.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack!

The silence that fills the apartment stretches on for the longest time, punctuated only by the sounds of Castiel’s espresso machine grinding coffee beans and the sizzling of Dean’s frying pan. Balthazar’s blue eyes drift slowly from the kitchen back to Castiel’s pink-cheeked face and he raises an eyebrow, moving past his friend into the apartment, ignoring the fact that he hasn't been invited in. Castiel opens his mouth then closes it again in resignation, shutting the door and watching Balthazar slip off his expensive moccasins and deposit his coat neatly on a hook, intent on staying a while, apparently.

“Cassie, I had no idea you had company. I would have called ahead if I'd known.” His voice is light but his eyes betray his confusion and concern. Dean coughs surreptitiously from the kitchen.

“You could always come back later. Cas and I are about to eat.”

“‘Cas?’” The blue eyes widen almost imperceptibly and Balthazar smirks. “Well, well. We _are_ on a first-name basis, aren't we?”

“Balthazar, please,” Castiel’s tone is imploring, and he doesn't miss the way Dean starts clattering about in the kitchen, either trying to make the point that Balthazar should leave or trying to make enough noise for them to speak privately. Possibly both. “Dean and I are just friends. I'm fine, he looked after me last night. I'll call you later?”

Meaningfully, he inclines his head towards the door and Balthazar sighs dramatically.

“Alright, Cassie darling, I'll leave you to your boy toy…”

“He is _not_ my boy toy!”

“And I'll drop by later on my way home from Pilates. The _instructor_ , honestly Cassie…”

Five minutes later, Balthazar has been hurriedly ushered out of the apartment and Castiel is sagging against the door, already exhausted. His friend has taken in his ruffled appearance, uncharacteristic outfit of sweatpants and a soft cashmere sweater, and had left with very little else said, apparently concerned but willing to trust Dean enough to look out for Castiel’s needs. Those needs which, so far, are being far surpassed and it's unfamiliar and alien to him yet somehow it's welcomed. He never thought he would ever be comfortable having a virtual stranger in his home, however Dean’s presence in his kitchen feels warm and homely. _And_ , his subconscious reminds him, _Dean isn't a virtual stranger. Those text messages you've been exchanging? You've got to know each other pretty well over the course of two short weeks…_

They eat sitting at the island in the centre of the kitchen and, when Dean notices Castiel shivering, he hops down and fetches a blanket from the sofa to wrap around his shoulders. It's such a simple gesture but it makes Castiel’s throat tighten and he gazes down at his cinnamon toast resolutely, certain that if he looks up at Dean the other man will see tears glittering in his eyes. Dean says nothing when Castiel adjusts the position of his cutlery so they're perfectly aligned, nor when he centres his glass of water on the coaster, but it's evident that he saw every motion, his pretty green eyes tracking the jerky movements of Castiel’s hands as he gives in to compulsions he doesn't have the energy to fight. He carefully averts his eyes from the kitchen work tops, knowing there are smears of egg and milk on the surfaces and breadcrumbs in the grooves of his chopping board. He badly wants to grab a cloth and wipe everything down, and some twitch or another must have given him away because Dean’s hand comes to rest in between them and his expression is earnest and shrewd.

“Cas. Talk to me. What's going on? I can see you practically crawling out of your skin.”

He hadn't been aware he was so obvious. He lowers his eyes to his food again, attempting to pick at it as he so often does with food made by someone he doesn't know or trust. But the spiciness of the cinnamon contrasting with the sweetness of maple syrup keeps exploding on his tongue and he's starving, unable to stop himself from almost wolfing down the meal. Dean falls quiet, watching him. Good, Castiel thinks as anxiety pinches his gut. If he's distracted he won't ask questions.

“Is it me?” The distraction clearly didn't last long. “Do you want me to go?”

“No.” His response is out of his mouth before he really registers it and he glances up to see Dean frowning. “I mean. If you wish to go then please don't let me keep you.” Maybe that's what Dean meant? He's getting frustrated having to look after Castiel and wants to leave? But the softness in the other man’s expression doesn't seem to suggest that.

“I don't want to leave. No way, man. I just don't want to make you uncomfortable is all.”

Castiel inclines a shoulder in something akin to a shrug. “I believe that's a risk I run whether you're here or not.”

“Why?” It's a fair question, but Castiel’s skin crawls. He doesn't want to talk about his weird personality quirks and panic disorder. He doesn't want Dean knowing how screwed up he really is. He lowers his eyes again. “Alright.” The chair creaks as Dean sits back. “If you ain't gonna talk then maybe I should. Because we've gotten to know each other pretty well, Cas, but there are still some things that confuse the fuck outta me about you.”

Yeah, why doesn't that come as a surprise? Castiel pushes a forkful of French toast around his plate miserably, soaking it in syrup. Learning that Dean’s noticed his ineptitudes and failures even during their short period of knowing each other is a blow. He shakes his head, not really knowing what he’s even saying no to, and hears Dean exhale on the other side of the table.

“OK. You don’t wanna talk? That’s OK. Maybe I’ll do the talking. You wanna know something about me? About why I do what I do?” Dean leans forward, resting his weight on his elbows. “Because I think you should. I think you have questions, and if our first meeting is anything to go by you have a few hang-ups about the type of work I do, am I right?”

“You don't have to share anything with me, Dean. Not if you don't want to.”

“But I _do_ want to, Cas. I trust you.” Dean shrugs and sips his coffee. “And if this,” he gestures between the pair of them with a finger. “Whatever it is, if this is going to go any further then there's some stuff you ought to know.”

Castiel’s cheeks pink up at this. At the idea that Dean thinks there's something between them. At the idea that Dean _also_ thinks there's something between them. Because up until now, Castiel has been afraid to admit one cold, firm truth to himself: that he's falling and falling hard for a man he once called abhorrent. For a man who is so far from that word that it makes Castiel sick to think that such a slur crossed his tongue. Falling for a man so beautiful and kind-hearted and surprising and utterly unattainable that he buried his feelings deep down inside himself and branded them foolish to save himself the heartache of learning Dean didn't feel the same. But now that he could? Now that it seems more than plausible that there _is_ something brewing between them? Well, Castiel’s carefully locked-up feelings are breaking their way free and he's left a little helpless under the onslaught of his attraction. He wants to both watch Dean and hide his face, but the green eyes are so captivating that he's unable to look away.

“I strip because I want to.” Dean is firm and forthright with his words and Castiel can't help but nod in response. He knew without asking that it would all be on Dean’s terms. What he doesn't know yet is _why_. “I strip because it's a thrill. It's exhilarating and I'm good at it. I'm good at being a pretty face,” There's a hint of self-deprecation there which Castiel determines he will explore later. “And I’m good at earning money from it. I have great colleagues and a great boss who takes care of his own.”

Dean falls silent, watching Castiel thoughtfully with a raised eyebrow. It’s as though he’s attempting to work Castiel out, to decide whether or not to reveal a further secret of his. He heaves a sigh, seems to come to the conclusion of _what the hell_ , and runs a hand through his hair.

“But there's something else.”

And there's a tone to Dean’s voice that suggests that this _something else_ isn't something small. So he sits and listens quietly as Dean begins to tell him.

“There's something else that I do too, Cas. On the side, to earn money. And hell, it makes me a damn fortune so I guess I'm pretty good at it.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, blushing and awkward. “You ever been on those cam websites? Where guys strip and… do stuff… while you watch?”

Castiel reddens and shakes his head, lying. Maybe once. Or twice. In his youth. And more recently. He coughs to hide his discomfort and his shock at what he's learning as his cheeks heat up. Dean is… Dean _does…_

“Well, yeah. I do that. Sometimes. A lot, actually. It's… I dunno, would you believe me if I said empowering?” Dean rubs his neck again, staring resolutely at his empty plate. “Probably not, nobody does. I’m not a slut, Cas,” Suddenly he takes on a desperate tone and he reaches across the counter top, hand stopping just short of Castiel’s. “It ain’t that. I mean, I love sex - who doesn’t? But… some shit happened to me and, I dunno, it’s my way of making it right. Of taking back a bit of the control that was taken away from me.” Dean is babbling now, words spilling quickly from him, and it’s so much to take in all at once. Castiel can’t process it all. Dean’s eyes are dark and nervous, almost pleading, clearly afraid of Castiel’s reaction. “But Cas…” He trails off, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before he looks up and Castiel is startled by how raw his expression is. “I wanted to tell you. I _had_ to tell you. You get that, right?”

And no, he doesn't. Not really. It sounds to Castiel like Dean has just revealed a very deep secret of his and in truth he doesn't know what to do with that information or why it's been entrusted to him. Him, of all people. On one hand, he’s appalled. Shocked by the idea of Dean exposing himself like that to strangers on the internet. But at least he's safe, he rationalises with himself. He's alone, in his apartment (if that's where he does it…?) and nobody can harm him. Unlike the club which is open and exposed and _anyone_ could touch Dean there, could reach him and hurt him… His throat closes off and he flinches back, unconsciously curling in on himself and Dean seems to take his discomfort and anxiety as rejection. His eyes cloud and he stiffens, spine going rigid and lips tightening and turning downward. Castiel wants to reassure him but the only word that leaves his mouth is a tight, almost plaintive: ‘why?’

Dean shrugs and splashes of colour appear high on his cheekbones. “Because I like you. Kinda. And I kinda hope that you like me, and… I don't want any secrets.”

Castiel gets that, on some level. He's never had someone confess to his face that they like him, so he's completely adrift at how to handle it. And the unadulterated joy filling him at the idea that Dean _likes_ him is obscuring his shock at finding out that the other man uses his sexuality online to earn a living. Well, almost. A million images are flying through his mind, he’s picturing Dean in any number of compromising positions and he should be disgusted. If he’s as prejudiced and haughty as he would have his friends believe, he would surely be astounded by this revelation. He imagines Balthazar’s eyebrows raising and his eyes widening, and Gabriel throwing his head back in laughter. They’d both remind him of how often he’s mentioned _modesty_ and _privacy_ as things he would look for in a partner. They’d both be astounded to learn that the prominent emotion overtaking him at this moment isn’t horror: it’s intrigue. The _whys_ and the _whens_ and, most importantly, the _hows_ of Dean’s secondary career in the adult entertainment industry. Shock, horror, disgust, revulsion? They aren’t there, and that in itself makes Castiel swallow hard.

“What… what happened, Dean?” His voice is barely above a croak and he coughs to clear his throat. “To make you want to… do that. I mean, how did you even…” He trails off. He has a hundred questions, a thousand. But more than anything, he wants to do something unprecedented for him. He wants to reach across the table and take Dean’s hand.

“I just… fuck, Cas. I wanna tell you, I do, it's just…” Dean scrubs a hand over his face, clearly having an argument with himself. “It's a control thing, OK? Because of… some stuff that happened in the past that I guess I'm not quite over yet. Can you… Can you understand that? At all?”

There's hope in the emerald eyes and Castiel stares, entranced. Hope, nerves, trust, and a little bit of fear, and he's sure his own expression mimics all of that and more. He sits quietly in the wake of Dean’s revelation, staring at his hands and trying to pin down something to say from the fast-flowing river of reactions flowing through his mind. Dean’s question hangs in the air between them. Can he understand control? Of all the things in the world that Castiel understands, the need for control is one of them. He inhales slowly, feeling his chest expand as his lungs fill. He's feeling strangely calm, and what comes out of his mouth surprises even him.

“I have OCD.”

He sees Dean’s head jerk up opposite him, but he can't look up to meet his gaze. He can feel his cheeks reddening and his heart beginning to race; he's never confessed it to anyone like this, not Balthazar nor Gabriel nor _anyone_. Everyone who knows him knows he's the way he is and has known him long enough to put the pieces together. He's never had to actually _tell_ anyone. But somehow, telling Dean doesn't feel difficult. And the words spill from him in an attempt to show Dean that he gets it. He understands.

“I've had it most of my life,” he continues, his fingers knotting themselves together and his palms beginning to dampen. “My parents were very strict during my childhood… my brother Jimmy is adamant they were abusive because they let us have no privacy whatsoever. No locks on the doors, no phones or laptops that couldn't be searched at any point, a strict schedule which we both had to keep to or else we would lose certain privileges… and I guess when everything else in my life was under such intense control I found ways to take it back myself.”

He shrugs stiffly, trying to pass it off as something meaningless but struggling. The memories of his father screaming at him for sleeping in and missing a piano lesson after staying up late studying, or his brother sobbing on his bed because he got a B- on a test and wasn't allowed to go to their end-of-year dance. He remembers how strict his own self-imposed study schedule was, how rigidly he planned everything and how all his textbooks and notepads were obsessively illustrated and colour-coded with highlighter pens and annotated in painfully neat writing. He had no friends in school because he threw himself into his studying and stuck close to his brother, and began to obsess over the neatness of his bedroom and the twins’ shared bathroom, arranging everything perfectly and tearfully shouting at Jimmy whenever he moved something without putting it back. That's when his symptoms started but it took a few years before they took such a hold of his life that they seeped into every single day. He's seen therapists, seen doctors, but he's smart and uses that to his advantage to tell them what they want to hear.

He starts violently when a hand comes into his field of vision and fingers gently stroke the back of his wrist. Shocked, he looks up and meets Dean’s beautiful green gaze and finds he's lost for words. There's warmth in those eyes, and something Castiel is far from familiar with: acceptance.

“It fucks up your life sometimes, right?” Dean’s voice is gentle, rough and low but sweet, caring. Castiel mellows under his tone. “Gets in the way of stuff you wanna do. Stuff you _need_ to do. I guess sometimes it must feel like it controls you, rather than the other way around?”

Castiel just nods mutely. How is it that Dean gets it instantly where others have failed? Where colleagues and acquaintances have just dismissed it - and him - as odd and weird and someone with _issues_. Is this why he's drawn to Dean? Because, in every way, shape and form, Dean is different?

“Is that what sparked the panic attack last night?” Dean asks, softly. “A control thing?”

“I guess,” Castiel squeezes Dean’s fingers and is relieved when his hand is taken and held in a strong grip. “I don't always know what triggers them. They sneak up on me.”

“I bet.” Dean smiles and it's soft and gentle; there's no mocking or disgust in it whatsoever. Then he says something that sparks tears behind his eyes and he has to duck his head to hide them. “There's nothing wrong with you, Cas. Nothing at all. I want you to know that. Oh, hey - I didn't mean to - don't cry…”

Dean’s hand disengages from his and a chair scrapes back across the floor, and Castiel brings a palm up to cover his eyes - then, in another move from Dean that shocks him to his core, he feels warm hands descend onto his shoulders and Dean leans down to wrap his arms around him from behind. He should pull away. He should run to his room and lock himself away and just _think_ , think about everything that they’ve both just said and analyse it all until it sends him over an edge again, because that’s what he does. But this time, that isn’t what he does. He can’t help himself. Castiel leans back into his embrace in spite of himself and closes his eyes, his lashes damp with tears, and for the first time in over a decade, as his heart rate slows and his muscles start to unwind, he feels relaxed in the arms of another. No, not relaxed.

At peace.

*

A while later, Castiel is sitting on the sofa wrapped in a soft cashmere blanket, exhausted but enjoying watching Dean move around his kitchen; he looks completely at home as he rummages in cupboards and makes coffee for himself and iced tea for Castiel. He's wearing his jeans from last night and Castiel’s old MIT sweater which clings to him in all the right places and is making incredibly naughty thoughts dance across Castiel’s mind. On the hunt for ice, Dean leans down and opens a door, humming a Rolling Stones song under his breath.

“Cas?” Dean’s tone is full of affectionate amusement when he withdraws from the freezer with something in hand. “What's this?”

And he holds up a half-empty carton of Karamel Sutra. Castiel blushes and is unable to stop the soft smile from tugging at his lips as he shrugs one shoulder as if to say, _I couldn't help myself._


	11. Chapter 11

Dean gives in eventually, and allows Castiel to clean up. It's early afternoon and the sun is streaming into the meticulously neat apartment, and to him the place looks spotless aside from a few dirty dishes in the sink. But the tension in Castiel’s shoulders combined with the way his hands keep twitching and his eyes flick to the kitchen all signal that he's far from happy with the mess, so when they've finished scraping their ice cream bowls clean, Dean decides to allow the man some breathing room (it is his apartment, after all) and stands up with a clatter of spoons as he balances the bowls in one hand and extends the other to Castiel. For a second, he forgets how to breathe properly: Cas is curled up on his sofa, feet tucked under him, and his skin is highlighted in a golden glow from the sunshine. It makes his dark hair shine and his eyes sparkle, and as their gazes lock for a millisecond Dean’s heart hammers against his ribcage. God, this guy is something else entirely, and so far removed from the man he first met all those weeks ago at the club. Castiel is studying his hand mutely, and just as it seems he might decline the offer of help up from the couch he reaches up and takes it, smiling tightly as Dean pulls him to his feet. Then, very suddenly, they're so close together that their chests almost touch and he swears Cas drops his gaze to linger at his mouth; he licks his lips self-consciously. He's more than familiar with hearing how good his mouth is and how his lips are perfect for sucking cock, and he hopes those aren't the thoughts going through Cas’ mind. The other man seems innocent in a way Dean is no longer familiar with, and he wants to cherish that for a while.

(Not for _too_ long, though…)

“Lead the way,” he makes an aborted gesture towards the kitchen and Cas frowns, tilting his head in confusion. “Clean-up time. And you're the pro, so show me what to do.” As Cas’ eyes widen a fraction Dean realises his words could be taken as mocking, and immediately grips the warm hand in his a little tighter. “I wanna help, Cas. And I don't know how you like things, so you gotta show me.”

“You don't… You don't think it's weird?” Cas’ voice is small and quiet and the sound of it constricts Dean’s heart. Has someone made Cas feel like a freak in the past because of his OCD? He wonders how many names he would have to take if he were to write an Ass-Kicking list. Instead of voicing that thought, he squeezes Cas’ fingers.

“No. Not at all. C’mon. Let's do the dishes.”

He never thought cleaning house could be so much fun. Well, _he_ enjoys it at least, and once Cas has relaxed enough to let his guard down he thinks he isn't the only one. After a while, Cas seems to relax as washing dishes and wiping down counters clearly centres him, and Dean follows him about doing whatever he can to help. Then they settle at the island in the kitchen, side-by-side, to drink coffee and talk. Dean considers the fact that maybe he should go home, give this guy a break from him, but Cas seems in no hurry to kick him out. But when the sun begins to set outside and the apartment is filled with a beautiful gilded glow, he eventually resigns to the fact that he should get home, shower, and do some research for the cam show he has scheduled for tomorrow. Plus he has to work tomorrow night and he needs to do some laundry. Glittery shorts don’t wash themselves.

Cas’ face falls visibly when he announces his departure, but he seems to recover himself fairly quickly and nods, walking Dean to his door and commenting, shocked, that he had no idea where the day had gone. Dean smiles. He has a clue: spending it in Cas’ company has been the best time he’s had in forever, awkward conversations and panic attacks aside, and he’s determined to do it again soon if he’s allowed.

“You sure you're OK? After, y’know, everything?” He loiters, not wanting to go just yet but running out of reasons to stay and wary of over stretching Castiel’s hospitality. He just doesn't really want to part ways yet, they've had a good time together overall and there's certainly a new flame ignited deep in Dean’s belly whenever he looks at Cas. And call him crazy but by the way Cas shifts and his eyes flicker from Dean’s eyes to his mouth, he's not the only one who feels it.

“I'll be fine. You've been very helpful, Dean. And caring. And I… I appreciate it.”

“Good. That's good.” He should go. He should really go. But instead his right hand is acting on it's own accord and is reaching out to link with Cas’ left and dammit the other man isn't pulling away. If anything, he's _encouraging_ Dean to take his hand. Damn. This is doing a real number on his crush.

“Will you be OK getting home? I could call a driver…”

“No, no that's not necessary, Cas. Don't worry. I'll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Cas’ voice seems softer, an octave lower, and there's a mixture of concern and intrigue in his blue eyes. He somehow feels closer, too. Only by an inch or so, but still. Dean breathes deeply through his nose, his eyes flicking to Cas’ mouth. Should he…? “I don't like the idea of you walking home alone in the dark.”

“Don't worry about it, baby,” Dean murmurs, then his brain screeches to a jarring halt. _Shit! Baby?_ Where the everloving fuck did _that_ come from? But as he flounders briefly in internal panic, Cas’ eyes glow with what looks like happiness and his fingers tighten on Dean’s. They're so close, it would take barely a movement to lean in and kiss him. And Cas is gazing up at him like he wants him to…

But something inside him is holding back. Trying to pull him away, warning him not to push too hard too fast. He and Cas are still on shaky ground, still fresh in their friendship, and they both have some serious baggage going on. He’s astounded that the other man didn’t either punch him or throw him out of his apartment after his confession about his cam job. He was expecting it. His fingers had gone numb as he’d talked and he was fully prepared to be called names, or for Cas to close up and pull back from him. But instead, Cas had confessed his own deep, dark secret and in doing so it has brought them closer together. And he doesn’t want to ruin that fresh intimacy.

So, despite the little voice in his mind screaming at him to grab Cas and kiss him senseless, he takes a small step back as though his feet are made of lead. Some of the light in Cas’ blue eyes fades but he pulls himself together and nods in acquiescence.

“Alright, Dean, if you’re sure. Just… send me a message when you get home. I,” He shrugs, pink-cheeked. “Worry. About things. About people. Sometimes.”

“I know you do,” That little voice in Dean’s mind allows him to life a hand and brush a thumb over Cas’ cheekbone. “It’s one of the things that makes you so awesome.”

They say their goodnights and he feels Cas watch him as he walks off towards the elevator, a spring in his step and lightness in his heart. He likes Cas. He _really_ likes Cas, and he’s excited to see how their relationship progresses over the next few days. He’s already wondering, as he steps out into the cool night air, when he can see him again and pondering over asking him to go for dinner. He isn’t sure they’d enjoy the same places, but he’s willing to go wherever Cas wants to go if it means they get to spend more time together. He thinks back to how Cas had watched him from the safety of his bed as he had stripped down and climbed on top of the covers to watch over Cas, and the soft look in the blue eyes had made his heart jump pleasantly in his chest. He had felt terrible at that moment, terrible for enjoying how close they were and how trusting Cas was being, but he couldn’t help it. He had wrapped a tentative arm around Castiel’s shoulders and held him as he had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and at that moment he hadn’t wanted it to end. Cas had cuddled closer to him in the night, restless, a hand reaching out to pull Dean close despite the barrier of the sheets between them, and he had stroked his dark hair and hushed him until he settled.

Cas’ OCD seems to make sense, now that he thinks about it. In the short time he’s known Cas he’s seen how neurotic he is, how he likes to control his surroundings and everything in them, and that he tends to overanalyse and misread situations. The ice cream thing, for example. While totally adorable and incredibly kind, he can now picture Cas agonising over what to do, how to respond to that message, and probably freaking out now on his drive over that he had done the wrong thing. And what had Dean done? Laughed in his face. He colours at the memory, vowing to himself to make that up to Cas. He shakes the memories off as he crosses the street, raising a hand in apology to a passing car as it honks angrily, warning him to concentrate on where he’s walking. He’s covered more ground than he realised, lost in thoughts of Cas, and he’s only a block from _Stairway to Heaven_. It can’t hurt to check in and see how those guys are doing, right? He’s not scheduled to work but he’s a bit too wired to go home just yet and the night is young. He can stop in for a quiet drink and to chat with his colleagues.

*

An hour in and he’s rushed off his feet. Billie had immediately roped him into bar duty then Crowley appeared and asked if he could cover for a couple of hours since Michael had called in sick. That means table service, dressed in very little, and a dance or two onstage. Nothing he couldn’t do with his eyes closed. As he changes, he sends Cas a message to say he’s stopped in at work and that he will call him tomorrow. And he blushes like a schoolgirl at the response.

**Castiel: I look forward to it, Dean. Thank you for everything you did for me. I’m looking forward to seeing you again…**

Dot dot dot? What does dot dot dot mean? All of Castiel’s text messages to date have been so perfectly structured and grammatically correct that the ellipses must mean something. But what? It sounds… enticing. It sounds like there are things Castiel wants to say, things he perhaps left unsaid when they parted ways earlier. Which is good, because there are things Dean left unsaid too, things he’s desperate to tell Cas. Like just how much he enjoys his company, and that he would really like to take him out on a date, and that he would like to share his bed with him again but this time for entirely different reasons. He licks his lips, pockets his phone, and smiles to himself as he walks back out into the bar.

Four dances later and he’s regretting his decision to work tonight. He’s been groped by two guys who had to be ejected by security, a drunk bachelorette party insisted he give the bride-to-be a lap dance who then proceeded to spill a sticky-sweet cocktail all over him, and he slipped over onstage and landed hard enough to jar his elbow painfully. Crowley had snapped at him twice, he’s been hit on by drunken creeps more times than he can count, and he’s exhausted and just wants to head home and crawl into bed with Zepp. He misses the damn furball and knows how displeased his feline companion will have been to see Sam come in this morning and not him. His ‘stayed out late, not home yet, pls feed Zepp’ text message had gone unanswered but he knows Sam won’t have left his cat to starve. He’s more likely to go home and find the ginger monster has been cat-napped by his gargantuan brother - Sam has always had eyes for that cat. Before he got Zepp neutered, Dean had to endure endless comments about how Zepp’s offspring would make great starter pets for Sam and Jess. After a long lecture about responsible pet ownership from Dean, Sam had eventually conceded that their lifestyle of being out to work twelve hours a day and vacationing whenever possible would be more suited to a goldfish.

Dean rubs his sore elbow and studies himself in the mirror. Some creepy guy who reminds him way too much of Alastair has requested a private dance from him and he needs to find Crowley to tell him he declines. The facial expressions, the nasally voice, there are too many similarities and the guy makes Dean’s skin crawl. He can’t do it, and although Crowley bitches him out about it he agrees to send a different dancer instead and Dean slips away into the back room after announcing his impromptu shift is over and he’s heading home. Crowley grumbles but lets him go, and he strips off quickly, grimacing at how grimy his skin feels.

He showers the oil, glitter and sweat from his body in the back room, the steam swirling up around him and condensing on the frosted glass shower screen. Crowley had the whole of the back rooms kitted out with deluxe bathrooms, lockers and even places for the dancers to sleep if they wanted a time out, but the showers are Dean’s favourite. The water pressure is amazing, even better than at home, and he takes his time soaping up his hair and running his hands over his skin. He wonders what Cas is up to, asleep probably. Hopefully. He hopes that he sleeps better tonight, although a nagging voice in his head wants him to go back over there and cuddle up with him again. His hands wander, trailing down over his abs and he cups himself, sighing softly at how good his own hand feels around his growing erection. The combination of the warm water, the privacy, and the images of Cas lying in bed are doing it for him and he gives in to the urge to touch himself. It’s not weird - he’s overheard plenty of his colleagues getting their rocks off in the club showers after a shift. Sometimes it’s hard to wind down and spending an hour or two grinding on someone during a private dance can really work a guy up.

He drops his chin to his chest, braces himself on the wall in front of him as the water cascades down his back, and strokes himself with a loose grip. His breathing picks up and Cas’ blue eyes flash in front of him. He remembers how close they were in the doorway, remembers how kissable Cas’ lips looked. He imagines pressing their mouths together, their chests, grinding against each other naked, lying between Cas’ legs and listening to him gasp and moan. He bets the guy makes the prettiest noises with that deep, honey-slick voice. Another groan tumbles from him and he arches his hips, tightening his grip and fucking into his hand. His own shaft feels thick and hot, velvet-smooth as it slides through his fist and he grits his teeth, arousal building. Through the steam and the droplets of water on his lashes he can see slick fluid beading at the tip and he pants, thrusting harder, working his hips into a rhythm as he imagines it’s Cas’ hand on him. Cas kneeling before him, staring up, watching him succumb to pleasure. He passes a thumb over his tip, twists his hand, thrusts harder as his mind supplies the image of Cas’ pink tongue flicking out to taste him and he’s gone. He tips over the edge into orgasm, coming with a low shout as he spills hot and creamy all over his hand and the tiles in front of him.

It takes a moment for his breathing to come back from short gasps and for his heart-rate to return to somewhere near normal, and he watches the water wash his release away as a pleasant glow of satisfaction spreads through him. Damn, including Cas in his masturbatory fantasies is so damn naughty but it pulled him over the edge faster than he thought possible. He finishes his shower quickly, then towels off in the locker room amid smirks and playful nudges. He clearly hadn’t been as quiet as he thought but he takes it all with coy smiles.

“Someone special on your mind, squirrel?” Crowley slaps his ass as he passes by. “Hope he’s good enough for our Dean.”

“He is,” Dean whispers, mostly to himself as he buttons his flannel. “He really is…”

He texts Sam as he leaves the club, surprised to see an incoming call a moment later.

“Sammy? Hey, thought you’d be asleep!”

“No, just up with Jess, she’s not feeling too good. Zepp is fine, by the way, although I think he’ll chew your ear off when you get in. Literally. Hey, where were you last night? Hot date?” There’s humour in Sam’s voice and Dean pauses. He hasn’t told Sam much about Cas since their conversation a few weeks ago. It isn’t that he’s hiding anything, but every time the guy comes up in conversation Sam calls him an asshole and then Dean doesn’t feel much like mentioning him again. He intends to, he really does. Just not now.

“Yeah, Sammy, something like that. You fancy lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure. Your place or mine?”

“Yours, I’ll bring the burgers.” He can tell Sam then. Tell him that he’s met someone, that it’s Cas, and that he isn’t the asshole he seemed at first sight. That he’s actually very sweet, very kind, funny, considerate and Dean feels like he could really…

“Alright. Get home safe, Dean.”

“Will do. Hope Jess feels better.”

He rings off, pulls his jacket a little closer and heads for home. It’s only a ten minute walk and he doesn’t feel like spending any of his tips on a cab. The walk will do him good anyway, give him time to think. TO either clear his head or to stuff it full of thoughts about Cas and how much he’s missing him already. He smiles and shakes his head ruefully. They’ve been apart for only a few hours but already he’s itching to see him again. To hold his hand, to caress his cheekbone, and to actually lean in and steal that kiss this time.

Dean turns to cross the street.

He doesn't see the oncoming car going at ten over the limit. A muscle car, red, something he normally would have stopped next to and admired with a low whistle. But he's too distracted by his thoughts, too caught up in reaching into his pocket for his phone to text the man he's slowly falling very hard for. It's 3am but Cas might be awake. He just might...

By the time he turns, the lights are blinding him and all he has time to do is brace for the imminent impact. He doesn’t have time to move or for a sound to leave his lips. A single, regret-drenched thought flits through his mind as he closes his eyes.

_I never got to tell Cas that I-_


	12. Chapter 12

“Good morning, Castiel,” Anna’s soft voice greets him as he strides into the office a little after 5am. She's sitting perched on the edge of her desk, auburn hair swept up into a neat chignon, and is reading something on her phone with a smile. Her legs are crossed at the ankles and she glances up as he approaches. “How are you, this morning?”

“Fine, thanks.” He pauses then, as an afterthought: “How are you? Is your mother well?”

She looks a little taken aback at his sudden concern but smiles and nods, and a moment later Castiel is in his office and settling himself behind his desk. A Starbucks cup greets him, perfectly positioned as always, and the caffeine feels like it flows straight into his bloodstream at the first sip. He's barely slept all night, kept awake by pleasant thoughts of Dean. They almost kissed in his doorway, he’s sure of it. Dean was so close to him and smelled so incredible, and the way he held Castiel’s hand… it makes his heart beat just a little faster just remembering it. His skin had been calloused, rough no doubt from working the pole at the club, and for a moment Castiel had wondered how that hand would feel on other parts of his body. That memory makes him blush and he quickly sips his coffee, returns it to its coaster and logs onto his system, embarrassed about his own desires. For he _does_ desire Dean, in every way possible. And he’s very quickly starting to think that Dean feels the same way.

The morning passes slowly and 9am rolls around accompanied by Anna with a fresh cup of coffee. She’s smiling as she sets it down for him.

“I must say, Castiel, it’s nice to see you so happy.” She reaches over and squeezes his shoulder and he glances up, confused. “Whoever they are, they’re clearly good for you.”

“I… I don’t know what you mean.” His mouth goes dry and his cheeks feel warm.

“I think you do. You’re just so much more relaxed these days, you smile more… I don’t know, Castiel, you just seem happier. And forgive me for asking, but… is it Dean? Is he the one you’re seeing?”

Castiel does blush at that. The last time he had mentioned Dean to Anna he was berating her for her plan to bring him ice cream - her _very successful_ plan, as it turns out. He hasn’t mentioned Dean since, he thought he was being discrete but apparently the woman has some super-human powers of deduction and can see straight through him. He shrugs, then nods, then pulls away from her touch in embarrassment.

“Maybe. It doesn’t matter anyway, it isn’t important. I’m very busy, Anna.” He says pointedly, but she just smiles at him again and heads for the door. Just before it clicks shut behind her, he says, “Anna?”

“Yes?” She pops her head back in.

“You really think I seem happy?”

“Very much so, Castiel. And I’m happy for you.” She smiles at him warmly then closes the door, and he’s left with his own love-struck grin as he stares at where her auburn head had just been. He _is_ happy, he thinks. Happier than he had been, certainly, despite his two panic attacks in the last forty-eight hours. Because Dean had been there with him, had guided him through them and had been with him on the other side. Dean hadn’t judged him for his OCD and panic disorder, in fact something in the green eyes had reflected compassion and understanding and the way he had been hugged… Warmth blossoms in his chest again and he smiles down at his computer. The last two weeks of chatting with Dean have been the best he can remember, and he can’t wait to see him again. In fact…

He whips out his phone and sends a quick message to the man on his mind, buoyed by Anna’s words.

I hope you had a good evening at work. I thought about you a lot last night. Are you free for dinner?

He sends it before he can chicken out, then locks his phone and slips it into his desk drawer, turning back to his work. An hour passes, then another, and he’s so engrossed in what he’s doing that he forgets to check for a reply. He has a conference call with a client in Europe, then a meeting with his Directors, then finally he’s back in his office and trying to finish off a report before lunch when there’s a knock at the door.

“Castiel?” Anna has poked her head around the door and is frowning behind her dark-rimmed glasses. “I have a call for you. Sam something. Shall I put him through?”

“No,” He's distracted, one eye on a spreadsheet. “I'm too busy. Take a message.”

She vanishes, only to reappear a second later. “I'm sorry, Castiel, but he's very insistent. He's demanding to talk to you.”

“Not now,” He frowns at a miscalculation and makes a note on his pad. “It’s probably a sales call. Take a message or give him the generic email address, I don’t have time to stop.”

“But he said it’s urgent. He said it’s a personal matter and he's been trying your cell for the last two hours…”

“Anna.” He drops his pen onto his desk with a clatter, reaching for his almost-empty Starbucks cup. “I _said-_ ”

“Just take the call, Castiel!”

And he looks up at her at that. Her tone is sharp and rough, nothing like he's ever heard before, and he gapes at her upon seeing the distress in her eyes. _What on earth…_ Meekly he nods and she vanishes to transfer the call. He pulls his phone out and sure enough: twelve missed calls from a number he doesn't recognise. His desk phone chirps and he picks up the receiver.

“Castiel? Castiel Novak?” The caller’s voice is strained, thick, and Castiel frowns. It isn’t someone he recognises.

“Yes, this is he. Can I help you, Mr…?”

“It’s Dean. There’s been an accident.”

And with that, everything falls frighteningly into place. Sam must be ‘Sammy’, the younger brother Dean talks so fondly of. He had assumed Sammy was a lot younger but the man on the end of the line sounds to be Dean’s age or similar. _There’s been an accident…_

“What…” His voice fails him and he tries again, all the feeling rushing out of his hands and feet, leaving them cold and numb. “What happened?”

His throat tightens as he listens to Sam’s cracked, hurried explanation. He writes down the name of the hospital with a shaking hand, needlessly as he already knows where it is, then ends the call and is up and out of his chair in seconds. He barks at Anna to call him a car as he’s on his way to the elevator and she calls after him that there’s one waiting already. She’s pale and worried as he turns to look at her, and he knows his own expression must display the panic he’s desperately trying to rein in. Dean’s hurt. Dean has been hit by a car. Dean is in hospital. Dean is asking for him.

The sleek black town car is waiting for him downstairs and he barks the address of the hospital at the driver, his panic displaying itself as sharp, demanding anger. He collapses back onto the leather seat, pinching the bridge of his nose, a million scenarios running through his mind. Dean on a gurney, bleeding. Dean lying in the street surrounded by paramedics. Dean on a hospital table, in surgery…

 _Stop!_ He all but screams at himself. _Sam says he’s going to be alright. He didn’t say anything about surgery or anything similar. You don’t know how bad it is, you won’t know until you get there. Stop torturing yourself._

Outside, it’s started to rain heavily and Castiel traces a raindrop down the inside of the car window with a finger, leaving the smallest gap between the glass and his fingertip. Traffic is slow-moving and he shouts at the driver more than once, telling him to find a quicker route, panic almost choking him. But it still takes too long and by the time they pull up in the car park, his cheeks are damp with tears and he’s shaking so badly that the driver has to open the door for him. He claps a hand on the shoulder of the taller, stockier man, mumbling apologies, and heads for the hospital wiping viciously at his cheeks.

He needs to get to Dean.

*

“Dean? Dean!” He all but runs to Dean’s bedside, where the younger man is sitting up, perched on the edge of the bed in a hospital gown in a private room, looking battered and bruised with a deep gash to his forehead that has had to be closed with stitches. There's a pretty blonde girl in a chair nearby and a nurse in scrubs adjusting an IV line, but Cas only has eyes for one person. “Oh, God, Dean. What happened? Are you alright? Where's your doctor?”

“Cas,” Dean reaches for him, clearly attempting to placate him but the movement is obviously painful because he cringes and aborts it, settling instead for what he probably thinks is a reassuring smile. “I'm fine, honestly. Not as bad as it looks.”

“Are you sure?” Cas can feel his eyes burning and a lump is rising in his throat, part panic and part something else much more intense. But the panic is rearing its head, taking over, stealing his breath and forcing his gaze to roam feverishly over the graze on Dean’s cheekbone, his bruised fingers, the way he’s holding himself so stiffly, the split lip, the bloody nose… “Which doctors have you seen? Can I see their credentials? Maybe you should get a second opinion… I can put you on my private health insurance, all I'd have to do is make a phone call…”

“Cas.” Dean does reach for him this time, seeming to ignore whatever pain he's in as concern takes over. His brows furrow as he tugs Cas close. “Breathe. I'm alright, I promise you. Please don’t panic. I’m fine.” He takes both of Cas’ hands in his and brings them to his lips where he brushes a kiss over the knuckles.

“Are you really sure?” Cas still feels like he's about to cry, knows he probably looks like it too but he doesn't care. Dean is _hurt_. He takes in more. The deep graze to Dean’s thigh, revealed by the hospital gown pulling up where he sits. The swelling around his left ankle. The way he’s breathing just a little sharply. The clear liquid in a plastic bag flowing into his veins.

“Yes, Cas, I’m sure.” Dean laughs just a little as he speaks, and his eyes look suspiciously damp too. “I’m just glad you’re here. I promise you, it’s nothing. Hey, c’mere.”

He tugs Castiel a little closer, to stand between his legs, and one arm comes to rest around his waist holding him close, the other held tightly to his own chest. Castiel feels some of his tension and distress easing away at Dean’s touch, and he reaches up and runs a hand gently through the matted hair on the opposite side to the jagged cut wordlessly, examining the stitches and sending up a silent _thank you_ that Dean is still here to tell him not to worry. They stare at each other for a moment, lost in each other's eyes and forgetting that they aren’t alone.

“Well, it’s not _nothing_ but you were very lucky,” A voice from behind Castiel cuts in and he turns in Dean’s arms to see a tall, broad-shouldered guy with shoulder-length hair striding in followed by a second nurse. Both of them raise their eyebrows at the pair’s close proximity. “It could have been much worse. I’m Sam. We spoke on the phone.”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel disentangles himself from Dean’s arms and extends a hand. “I’m Castiel-“

“Yes, I know who you are.” Sam’s voice is sharp and his eyes narrow minutely. He’s regarding Castiel critically and waves of tension and dislike are coming off him. Castiel falters, frowning. He doesn’t recall doing or saying anything to upset Dean’s brother, but he doesn’t exactly remember what he said on the phone. Before he can open his mouth to speak, Dean pipes up from behind him.

“Sammy, play nice. I’m on my deathbed here, I can’t exactly break up a catfight if you two go at it.”

“Go at it?” Castle’s head whips around. “Why would we go at it?”

“Forget it, it’s nothing.” Sam walks around to the other side of Dean’s bed to kiss the pretty blonde who has been pretending to read a magazine with her eyebrows raised. When he looks up, his eyes betray his concern for his brother, concern which he buries behind his faux-upbeat words. “And a second ago you were fine, now you’re on your deathbed. Which is it?”

“You need to work on your bedside manner a bit, Sammy.” Dean is allowing himself to be lowered back onto the bed by the nurse, cringing a little in pain. “I’m sensitive, you know?”

“Sorry, Dean,” Sam’s voice softens and he rests a hand gently on his brother’s forearm. “How are you really?”

“I feel like hell. And I’d love to get five minutes alone with the driver of that damn car.” Dean glowers. “Asshole.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Jess leans forward, offering him a sip of water and rubbing his arm as he lets out a grunt of pain through clenched teeth. “Poor baby, you gave us all a hell of a fright.”

Castiel has never met Jess before, nor Sam, but she looks a shade paler than she probably is normally and her hair is roughly scraped up into a messy ponytail. They both look like they got dressed very hurriedly - Sam is wearing two mismatched sneakers. Dean shrugs then grimaces.

“No. Just lights, then not much. Remember Benny kneeling over me, never seen him look so freaked. Then nothing til I woke up here with that Sasquatch peering down at me. Benny’s a security guard at the club,” Dean explains to Cas. “He heard the impact and called 911. I owe him a beer or two.”

More than a beer, Castiel thinks, frightened by the idea of what could have happened if Dean had been left lying in the road for much longer. Before he can voice such thoughts, there’s a knock at the door and a pretty brunette in a white coat walks in purposefully, consulting a chart.

“Dean, you sure have a lot of visitors. How are you feeling? Hi, I’m Dr Barnes,” The woman smiles at Castiel and shakes his hand across Dean’s prone body, not giving him the chance to answer. “I’ve been assigned to Mr Winchester’s case. You must be his boyfriend.”

And she turns away to consult a chart, unaware that Castiel has gone an impressive shade of fussy and that Dean has jerked in shock upon hearing the label. They both stare at each other, flustered and open-mouthed, and Castiel does an excellent impression of a trout as he flounders about for something to say as Dean stutters a response.

“Doc, we’re… we… um…”

Dean seems equally embarrassed, but Castiel admits privately that he’s pleased that the first words out of his mouth aren’t a firm rebuttal. He hasn’t even _thought_ about he and Dean becoming boyfriends - they haven’t even kissed yet - but now that the possibility has been so suddenly brought up it brings a warm feeling to his chest and he reaches for Dean’s hand. The blonde stares up at him, pink-cheeked and grinning, and squeezes his fingers. Sam is watching them both with a concerned frown, opens his mouth to speak but Dr Barnes gets there first.

“Sam was right, Castiel, Dean was indeed very lucky. This could have been a lot worse.” She dabs at the stitches on Dean’s forehead where a little blood has managed to bead along the torn skin. “He’s got a sprained ankle, torn rotator cuff, cracked ribs, cuts and bruises but apart from that he’s relatively unscathed.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Dean grumbles, shifting in bed then hissing in pain and gripping Castiel’s hand tightly. “Feels like a train got me, not a car.”

Barely aware he’s doing it, Castiel runs his hand through Dean’s hair again in an attempt to calm him. And to calm his own fractured nerves. Dean could have _died…_

“Where’s the driver?” His voice is scratchy and he clears his throat in embarrassment, watching Dr Barnes push aside the hospital gown and examine his left shoulder which is shrouded in purple and blue bruising.

“Got away.” Sam’s voice is tight with worry and frustration. “Hit and run. Asshole swerved at the last minute or it could have been..." Sam's throat works as he swallows. "Much worse. Benny found Dean in the road and called an ambulance, cops took a statement but…”

He shrugs and Castiel empathises with his feeling of helplessness. It’s unlikely they’ll find the driver unless CCTV cameras were on, and in that part of town? Near the club? Unlikely. As swanky as Crowley’s place it, it isn’t exactly in the safest part of town. He shudders as he pictures it happening, imagines Dean’s body hitting the ground, the squeal of tyres on damp concrete as the car speeds away, imagines Dean just _lying_ there…

“Cas?” Dean’s hand comes up to touch his cheek. “I’m OK. Really. Up and at ‘em again in no time.” He tries to sit up, cringes and gives up, lying back against the pillows. “OK, maybe I’ll need a day or two.”

“I want him to stay here tonight,” Dr Barnes is addressing Castiel, pushing strands of her long dark hair back off her face. They’ve escaped from her hair tie and Castiel’s fingers itch with the urge to put them back into place for her. “He took quite a knock to the head and was in and out of consciousness for a while. CT scans are clear, but we want to keep him under observation.” At a grunt from Dean, she smiles. “He’s thrilled about it, as you can see.”

“Can I do anything? Get you anything?” Castle’s attention returns to Dean, and the pain in the green eyes is unmistakable now. A small frown is pulling his brows down and he’s clenching his jaw just enough for it to be visible. “Can you give him anything for the pain?”

“Already have.” Dr Barnes gestures to the IV. “It’ll kick in shortly. Now, I’m going to leave you boys alone but don’t hesitate to call one of us if you need anything. Dean, are you feeling OK? Good. Just take it easy, OK? And I want no more than one visitor in here, he needs his rest.”

Sam and Jess bid Dean farewell amid Castiel’s protests that he should be the one to go and that Sam should stay with his brother, but the way Dean grips his fingers suggests that he should keep quiet and agree. He does, allowing that warm feeling of being needed to blossom just a little, but as Sam leaves Castiel excuses himself for a moment and follows him out into the hallway.

“Sam? Is everything… have I done something to offend you?” He’s troubled and doesn’t want there to be any tension between them, not with Dean in such a fragile state. Sam pauses and sighs, and Jess heads on down the corridor pretending to play on her phone in an attempt to give them a moment.

“No, Castiel, it’s fine. I just know that you and Dean didn’t get off to the best start, so… yeah. I’m not sure what’s happened between you since but he was pretty insistent that I call you when he was eventually lucid enough to talk.” Sam frowns. “It was quite a bang to the head.”

“He insisted?” Castiel tempers down a smile - not the right moment. “Well, your brother and I have got to know each other very well and I certainly misjudged him. I’ve given him man an apology about it.”

“Good. Fine. Just…” Sam rubs the back of his neck. “Dean’s a good guy. The best. And he deserves someone who treats him the way he deserves because he’s been through some shit in the past. So if you hurt him…”

“I won’t.” Castiel’s tone leaves little room for doubt. “I promise, Sam. I won’t hurt him.”

“Good.” A half-smile tugs at Sam’s lips. “Go. Get back to your,” The smile turns into a smirk. “ _Boyfriend._ Look after him.”

Then he’s gone, catching up to Jess who slings an arm around his waist as they walk and Castiel stares after them, a little choked up for an indeterminable reason.

*

“You OK?” Dean’s green eyes are dark with pain and exhaustion as they stare up at him. “You comfy?”

“I’m fine, Dean. Are you? Do you need anything?”

“No. Just you.”

Dean’s head rests back on Castiel’s chest again and his arm tightens warmly across his chest. Castiel is sure that Dr Barnes wouldn’t approve of them both cuddling on Dean’s hospital bed, but the younger man had been insistent and Castiel had been powerless to resist his puppy-dog eyes. So now his trench coat, suit jacket and tie are neatly folded over a chair beside his shoes and he’s got a sleepy Dean curled up against him. Both of them are snuggled under the miniature-sized hospital sheet that could probably pass as a hand-towel, but their body heat is keeping them warm. Castiel has quizzed Dean relentlessly about his injuries, and finally satisfied that Dean is telling him the truth about his condition he finally relaxes and holds Dean close. The desire to turn his head and kiss him on the temple is overwhelming and he gives in to it. Dean smiles against his chest, breathing slow and deep, clearly pleased by the action, so he does it again.

“So. Doc thinks you’re my boyfriend, hmm?” Dean’s voice is low, husky with exhaustion, but there’s a teasing tone to it. “Guess we’re giving off those vibes.”

“I… I suppose we are.” Castiel feels his shoulders tense, suddenly worried. “Is that… should we…”

“Are you my boyfriend, Cas?” Dean tilts his head so their eyes can meet. The room is dim, the blinds pulled down, and it’s later than visiting hours truly allow. Castiel is sure that Dr Barnes is bending the rules for them for whatever reason, and he’s beyond thankful. He never wants to let go of this beautiful man, and in the soft glow of the lamplight Dean’s eyes glitter and his lips look tempting and sweet. “Do you wanna be?”

“I… I’ve never…” Castiel swallows, his mouth dry. This almost doesn’t feel real. He wonders if he’s dreaming and pinches his forearm surreptitiously. It hurts, so he’s safe to assume he’s awake. “How many drugs are you on?”

Dean laughs lowly. “Not that many, Cas. Not enough, probably. But I feel better with you here.” His finger traces a random pattern onto Castiel’s chest, just dipping beneath the untucked hem of his shirt. “I always feel better with you around.”

“I do too, Dean. I feel… I don’t feel as… I can’t explain it.” Castiel pulls Dean intimately closer and the other man cuddles in, hissing a little as he jolts his bad shoulder. “I’m so sorry, are you-“

“I’m fine, Cas.” Dean pushes himself up onto his good elbow and the new position puts their mouths only inches apart. Castiel blinks, his gaze flicking down to where Dean’s tongue has darted out to wet his lips. “Do you wanna be my boyfriend?”

“I think… I think I’d like that very much, Dean.” Happiness, a true and unfamiliar feeling, uncoils somewhere inside Castiel and the look of pure joy in Dean’s green eyes only serves to double it. “I’d love to be your boyfriend.”

Then they’re kissing, neither of them sure who closed the gap first, and Dean’s mouth feels like the freedom Castiel has been waiting his whole life for.


	13. Chapter 13

The following morning dawns bright and sunny, yet Dean awakens with tears on his lashes. The pain from his left shoulder and ribcage, the side of his body which took the impact of the car, is unbearable. He can barely think through the waves of agony that accompany every movement, so it takes him much longer than it should to hit the call button and summon a nurse. When she arrives, her cheerful face immediately becomes stricken as she looks him over.

“Dean? What's the matter?”

“Hurts,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Hurts fuckin’ _everywhere_.”

“It will do, doll,” Her syrupy voice is a clear attempt to soothe him - and it fails miserably. “Let me get you something for it then we can see about some breakfast, hmm?”

“Whatever.”

Dean slumps back onto his pillows, uncaring about his rudeness as she vanishes and leaves him alone in a room that now feels too big and too empty for his liking. A half hour later, with painkillers running through his veins, he does feel better but only marginally. He dozes off and on, fighting waves of nausea and unable to get properly comfortable. He misses Cas. A _lot_. The other man had left just before midnight upon Dr Barnes’ insistence, but had promised he would be back when visiting hours started again at 7am. Cas isn't here, so that means he's awake early. He'd endured a horrible night alone. With Cas there, he was OK. Nothing hurt too badly and he managed to relax in the other man’s arms. But later, alone and cold beneath the thin hospital blanket, the last of his adrenaline drained away and he began to shake and pant with the exertion of being alive. Every time he closed his eyes he could picture the car, the bright lights, the squeal of tyres, the impact… and it made him cringe every time, which in turn jarred his injuries and made him whine with pain. Now he curls up on his side, miserable, and wanting Cas so badly it hurts. He doesn't realise he's crying until a wet spot on his pillow soaks his skin, but before he can move to turn the pillow over and hide the evidence there's a soft voice from the doorway.

“Dean?”

“Oh - hi… hey, Cas.”

And it's like seeing the sun rise. Warmth blossoms in Dean’s chest at the sight of the man he's now allowed to call _boyfriend;_ Cas is standing there, dressed down in jeans and a black sweater with the sleeves pushed up, holding two Starbucks cups and a paper bag, and for some obscure reason the sight of him brings another wave of tears and Dean can't hold them back. He covers his face with his hand and snuffles, trying to hide his embarrassing descent into emotion, but Cas is at his side in a heartbeat.

“Dean? What is it, what's wrong? Are you in pain? What can I do?”

And he looks so worried that it almost breaks Dean’s heart. A gentle hand runs through his hair and, in spite of the pain, he reaches out and takes it, bringing it to his lips and sighing against Cas’ skin. He's too exhausted and drained to think clearly.

“Missed you, Cas.”

“I missed you, too. It was torturous being away from you, I couldn't sleep a wink.” Cas pulls a chair up, not letting go of Dean’s hand for a second. “What's the matter? Please tell me?”

“I dunno, man.” Dean snuffles out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Shitty day. And night. I dunno why it's shaken me up so bad, just a stupid accident.” He shakes his head then winces, regretting it. “‘m being pathetic.”

He'd spent the night having painful flashbacks to another accident from his past as well, one which Alastair had sneered at him about and had called him pathetic for being distressed after it happened. He and Alastair had been walking along a pier in a seaside town together when Dean had slipped and fallen into the water below. He can't swim, had never been taught, and panic had flooded him as he thrashed and gasped and tried to keep his head above the water while up above him Alastair’s nasal laughter had rained down coldly. He remembers going under, remembers choking on mouthfuls of salt water, remembers it filling his lungs and the terror of being unable to draw breath. It had felt like blackness seeping into him, consuming him, and one of his worst memories is sinking beneath the surface, Alastair visible through the blur of ripples left by his thrashing, as his eyes fell closed. Then, the next thing, coughing and retching and choking on the pier as someone pounded on his back and all around him people congratulating Alastair for heroically diving in to save him. He couldn’t figure out, through the haze of trauma, why nobody realised what Alastair had really done: stood by and watched Dean struggle and almost drown before jumping in to play the hero. But then again, Alastair always managed to hide his dark side from everyone. Everyone including Dean.

“Hey,” Cas squeezes his hand, looking alarmed. “Dean, you’re not being pathetic, not at all. You were in a horrible accident, one that could have been so much worse. Being traumatised by it is only natural.”

“I’m not… _traumatised,_ I just…” OK, maybe he is. A little. And that makes him feel weak as fuck but dammit Cas’ reassuring presence is making it really easy just to curl up and let himself be taken care of right now. “I’m stronger than this.”

“I know you are,” Cas smiles and brushes a kiss over his knuckles. “But you don’t have to be strong all the time. I can be strong for both of us for now. You just need to rest up and let your body heal. And don’t be afraid to ask for anything you need, alright?”

“Alright.” That warm glow is there again. It feels good to be looked after, so damn good. He sniffs the air, scenting coffee and something sugary-sweet. “You brought food?”

“I did. Double chocolate muffins and cinnamon twists. I didn’t know which you’d like, so.” Cas shrugs and helps Dean into a somewhat upright sitting position then sits on the edge of the bed. “And coffee. I expect the cafeteria here isn’t up to much.”

“It sure as hell ain’t up to this.” Dean tears off a mouthful of pastry with his teeth and makes a sound akin to an orgasm - and he’s sure he sees Cas’ pupils dilate just a little and suppresses a grin. With the accident and all he hasn’t had much time to think about Cas and he together but now that they’ve finally locked lips he figures he gets a free pass. He takes the green and white coffee cup grateful, sighing as the caffeine hit explodes over his tongue and heads straight for his veins. He feels better already. Cas breaks off a piece of chocolate muffin and, giving Dean a strange kind of shy look, holds it up in offering. Attempts to shift his coffee into his left hand fail miserably and just as he’s about to admit defeat and hand his cup back to Cas to free up his right hand to take the muffin Cas smiles and leans in a bit, the chunk of muffin held loosely between thumb and forefinger, and suddenly his intent becomes crystal clear and Dean’s heart-rate picks up. He leans forward as much as he can manage and takes the delicious treat from Cas’ fingers, his lips barely brushing warm skin, and however good the muffin tastes it’s a hundred times better being fed from Cas’ hand. Upon discovering Dean liked the gesture, Cas breaks off a second piece and again brings it to Dean’s lips. There’s a hungry look in his eyes and it likely has very little to do with the breakfast they’re sharing together. They continue that way until it’s totally gone and Dean is feeling weirdly tingly all over.

“Was that… any good?” Cas’ eyes are so dark that his irises have all but vanished to a thin ring of vibrant blue and he’s blushing, shifting to tuck one foot up on the bed beneath him - he’s kicked off his shoes at some point, Dean notices, and that also makes him feel kinda nice. Cas clearly doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon.

“Yeah, it was… awesome. Got any more?”

“Let’s save the other one for later, hmm?” Cas’ hand comes up to brush Dean’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “A little bird told me that I can take you home today if you’re feeling up to it.” Either Cas is leaning in or he is because the space between them is suddenly diminished and the air feels thick with things unsaid. “Are you, Dean? Feeling up to going home?”

“With you?” Dean’s smile is genuine and as Cas cups his face his eyes fall closed as a gentle kiss is pressed to his mouth. “Always.”

*

Dean’s released from hospital later that day with a stack of painkillers and, much to his dismay, a set of crutches. He’s wearing an extremely sour expression by the time Dr Barnes discharges him, and it’s all made worse by the fact that he’s certain Castiel is laughing at him from behind his palm.

“These won’t do you much good yet until that shoulder of yours is healed. But you might be able to get away using one, at least, and if your boyfriend is going to be around to help you…?” She turns enquiringly to Cas who nods like an eager puppy. It’s more than cute - it’s freakin’ adorable and it makes Dean want to hop down from his bed and ruffle Cas’ hair. But his shoulder aches, his ankle throbs, and he won’t be hopping anywhere for a while. Then he remembers: work. Dammit. He wonders offhandedly if he can sweet-talk Cas into calling his boss. Adult or not, he’s never grown quite comfortable with making the ‘I’m sick and can’t come in’ phone calls - he always convinces himself that his superiors think he’s faking. Dr Barnes seems to have come to the end of her spiel and soon Dean is limping painfully down the corridor, Cas on one side while he limps awkwardly with most of his weight on his right leg out through the hospital doors to be met with the sight of a sleek black town car with a guy in a suit standing right by it. He immediately assumes the car isn’t for them, but as they approach the guy turns to open the door and smiles tightly at them both. He twists to look at Cas who seems completely unfazed by the sight.

“Uh, Cas? Is this yours?”

“Yes, Dean. Of course. Is it suitable? I can get another car, if you’d like…”

“No, no, Cas, it’s fine. But… bit fancy, ain’t it? I thought you’d just call a taxi or something.”

Cas frowns and he suddenly looks so crestfallen that Dean feels an instant pang of guilt. “I’m sorry, Dean. I just thought… I wanted you to be comfortable.”

“It’s fine, Cas, really. I just wasn’t expecting luxury, that’s all. I’m more of a yellow cab kinda guy. But this is a real treat. Thank you.”

He squeezes Cas’ arm and is rewarded by a shy, pleased smile and, as a result, he allows Cas to help him just a little more than he would normally allow as he struggles to get into the car. As he relaxes against the leather he has to admit: it was one swell idea, getting a town car. He can always use a little extra luxury in his life, especially when he’s kinda down and was almost out. As his new _boyfriend_ settles in the seat next to him and hands him a bottle of San Pellegrino with a wry reminder to hydrate. The car purrs its way through town and while it’s in no _way_ a patch on his beautiful Impala he has to admit that it’s a pretty sweet way to travel.

They’re heading to Dean’s place. Cas had offered hospitality at his apartment at once, but Dean already misses Zepp unbearably (a fact he keeps to himself) and had requested that they go home on the insistence that he doesn’t want to impose on Cas any more than he has to, plus he never sleeps as well as he does when he’s curled up in his own bed. And if the aching in his joints is any indicator of the night to come, sleep will be hard to come by wherever he is.

It takes a long time to get into his apartment, and Dean is only too happy to provide a soundtrack of constant griping as Cas manhandles him through the doorway and points a stern finger in the direction of the bedroom.

“Yes, sir, right away, sir,” Dean grouches and Cas’ blue eyes flash with something unreadable at the nickname. Dean smirks - he’s finding a few interesting things out about the other man today, things he can’t wait to explore when he’s got all his arms and legs at his disposal.

“You like that, Cas? Being called ‘sir’? Does it rock your boat?” He grins as a pretty shade of pink creeps up Cas’ neck to stain his cheeks and Cas averts his eyes in embarrassment.

“No. Not in the slightest. Dean, you need your next dose of meds and I think you should - _argh!_ ” Cas stiffens and leaps a full foot away from Dean with a very unmanly squeal of shock and fixes Dean with a panicked expression. “What was that?! Something just _touched_ my leg and it definitely wasn’t _you_ and…”

“Cas, relax, man,” Dean can’t help the laugh that spills from his lips as he glances down. A huge powderpuff of ginger fur is wrapping itself around Dean’s legs, purring loudly and glaring up at him reproachfully. “It’s just Zepp. And he’s mad at me for being gone so long, aren’t you sweetheart - oh, _ow_!” He had been trying to reach down for Zepp but pain had lanced its way up his back and into his shoulder forcing him to straighten with a grimace. “OK, we can reunite later.”

“Yes, you can.” Cas looks a shade paler and mostly embarrassed, but he no longer looks on the verge of panic attack. He just stares down warily at Zepp who gives him a very disdainful glare and wanders off towards the kitchen, tail high in the air and butt swaying. “I, uh, don’t think your cat likes me.”

“He hates everybody, don’t worry about it. I think I, uhm, should maybe go lie down.” He’s suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion mixed with dizziness and grips the back of the couch to stop himself from falling on his ass. Cas is immediately there with an arm around his waist and a concerned expression, and moments later he finds himself being laid down gently on the bed and Cas slowly strips him of his t-shirt and jeans. It would be erotic, but his aching ankle and the wave of nausea threatening to crawl up his throat keeps the moment strictly PG.

“No work for me for a while,” he says, morosely, leaning back against the pillows and allowing Cas to fuss over him. “Crowley is so gonna kick my ass. I don’t even have a phone to call him on, fuck.” His had been smashed in the accident. “Well, at least I can still cam, right?” He laughs sardonically and passes a hand over the lower half of his face, suddenly regretting his words and hoping he hasn’t scared Cas away. This whole thing is still so new. “Who am I kidding? Nobody is gonna want to see my sorry ass get off. I'd scare customers away.”

“I don't know about that, Dean,” Cas says, somewhat primly as he drags a second blanket up over Dean then runs an affectionate hand through his hair. “I think there will be plenty of people keen to nurse you back to health. You might find yourself a new, untapped audience. And I’ll buy you a new phone tomorrow, don’t worry about anything.”

Dean guffaws then cringes in discomfort, his eyes slowly closing thanks to the pain meds. “You think? You're pretty cool, Cas. I thought you'd hate all of this.”

As he drops off to sleep, Cas’ hand strokes gently through his hair and he feels warm lips against his cheek.

“Whatever makes you happy, Dean. You deserve to be happy.”

*

As it turns out, Cas is right. Two days later, after much grumbling and griping to himself, Dean posts a photo of his injured shoulder to his Instagram page with a rueful message about how he's out of action for a while. Seconds later he's receiving a stream of notifications from concerned (and, clearly, kinky) men offering their sympathies and telling him how much they miss his pretty face and that he should do a show anyway. And, as Cas predicted, how much they would love to nurse him back to health. He texts Cas in disbelief, frowning at the two words ( _told you_ ) he receives in response. What does that mean? Is Cas alright with him doing a show, or does he hate the very idea?

Damn. Dean lies back on his bed, ankle aching from spending too much time walking about on it without his crutch today, and stares at the ceiling. This is why he finds relationships difficult. It's incredibly rare to find anyone who is totally cool with the idea of him doing cam shows, and he's never wanted to change in the past. Has never wanted to stop his shows or get another job (a ‘real’ job as plenty of his exes have suggested), but something feels different this time. It feels like… it feels like if Cas wanted him to stop then he would. And, as he turns over in bed and stares at the clock - 4am _again_ , damn this stupid shoulder keeping him awake every night - he’s struck with his own case of nerves. He’s been going over and over Cas’ two-word response for hours now and is feeling worse not better.

He’s been so worried about Cas freaking over him camming that he hasn’t stopped to think about how _he_ really feels about having a boyfriend with his chosen career. He hasn’t dated anyone in a very long time, let alone anyone he wanted anything real with, and all of a sudden it’s all kinds of overwhelming. He hasn’t liked anyone so much since… since he first met _Alastair_ and the feelings he had for him are dead and buried long ago. And Cas is nothing like Alastair, could never be anything like him. But his feelings for Castiel are growing in intensity every day and that scares him. It scares him because he doesn’t know how Cas feels, not really. He doesn’t know what’s going through the other man’s head, whether he’s really planning to stick about or whether Dean’s accident has got in the way of him breaking things off between them. And he hates the thought of being strung along, manipulated, _used._ He promised himself, after Alastair, that he would never let a man control him again, would never again be subjected to anything that he didn’t want or couldn’t control.

 _But Cas doesn’t want to control you,_ his inner voice whispers. _He wants you as you are. He wants you to be you. He knows who you are and what you do and he likes you anyway._

“But he doesn’t know everything,” Dean sighs, turning onto his back again and idly stroking Zepp who purrs and headbutts his hand in acknowledgement. He’s never told anyone what really happened with Alastair. He’s never wanted to before. But maybe, now, it’s time he did. That would be the real test, right? If Cas still wants him then, once he knows about the videos of Dean out there on the internet for the world to see, _then_ he’ll truly know whether it’s safe to open his heart to someone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part where Dean has a miserable night after Cas leaves him at the hospital? That was written from memory: I had a snowboarding accident last year and after I got home from the hospital and went to bed I couldn't sleep for panicking and shaking as the adrenaline rush flooded away. It was like being in shock, not a nice experience! So poor Dean ♥


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about time this got updated! Sorry you had to wait so long, but I've finally cracked it this time and I have some incredibly angsty angst planned for you guys. Thank you to everyone who has stuck around waiting for this chapter - this is dedicated to every single one of you.  
> Now, enjoy!

But as it turns out, telling Castiel about Alastair’s betrayal isn’t as easy as Dean hoped it would be. Tugging on that thread means spilling everything, everything that Alastair ever did to him, and he doesn’t want to sully this new thing that he and Cas have got going on with his sordid history. Cas is a good person with a heart of gold, and he’s damaged goods – he knows it’s selfish but he wants to cling to the newness of their relationship for as long as he can.

He spends the next few days moping around at home, snuggling with Zepp and trying to remember to take his pain medication – all the while pining a little pathetically for Cas. They text throughout the day and every night on his way home Castiel shows up with take-out food for them both. It’s little things like that which really melt Dean’s heart and make him ache for the presence of the older man in his life – which both fascinates and terrifies him. He’s never been good at opening up to anyone, yet Castiel makes him want to lay all his cards on the table and see where that takes him.

It’s Monday night and they’re sitting on Dean’s couch eating Thai food and watching old reruns of _Cheers_ , and Dean is torn completely between putting their plates aside and snuggling up with Cas and starting up a conversation that will surely lead to him confessing the details of his past. Castiel is talking about having dinner with Balthazar and Gabriel at the weekend and Dean is only just managing to squash down irrational feelings of jealousy and envy. _He_ wants to see Castiel this weekend, and the logical, sane part of him knows that he can’t stop Cas seeing his friends. Nor does he want to. But he’s become so used to being the focus of Cas’ attention over the last few days that he petulantly doesn’t feel like sharing. Not yet, anyway.

Perhaps he could tell Castiel about Alastair at the weekend. They could have dinner together, give him time to collect his thoughts, and then -  

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” he comes to with a jolt, realising he’s been glazed over and lost in thought for longer than he realised. “Sorry, Cas. Thinking too hard.”

“About anything serious?” Castiel takes his plate and walks to the kitchen, rinsing them off before placing them neatly by the sink to be washed properly later on. Dean feels a spark of pride for him – Cas normally would want to wash, dry and put them away immediately. But not tonight; Cas comes to sit back down with him, one foot tucked neatly beneath him, and fixes Dean with a concerned, probing stare. He’s a master of that look and Dean is a little helpless beneath the weight of it.

Here goes nothing.

“I, uh, was thinking about my ex.” And, judging by the shadow that crosses Castiel’s face, that did _not_ come out correctly. “Not like that! I just… Fuck.”

He runs a hand through his hair, collapsing back into the sofa. _Well done, Dean. Great start._ Castiel is staring at him with a new resolution now, concern and confusion warring in his blue eyes and underscored with a glint of hurt, and Dean simply cannot have that. No way. He needs to rectify this.

“I was, uh, thinking about how much better this is. How good we are together. Compared to, like, him.” He finished lamely, still wanting to kick himself – busted ankle be damned – but to his relief Castiel’s expression does clear slightly.

“I agree, Dean. This does feel good. I really enjoy spending time with you.” Cas reaches out and links their hands together, smiling at him. “I must confess, I don’t, uh, like to think of you with other people. Romantically,” he hastens to add and thank God because Dean is still a little worried that Cas isn’t totally cool with the whole stripper-cam-boy persona. “I don’t like thinking about people who have had the privilege of being with you before me. I think I have a somewhat possessive streak.”

“Yeah?” Dean can’t help but smile. “Nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Cas.”

“You don’t mean that.” Castiel has turned a little pink and it’s adorable. “You’re incredibly handsome, Dean. Your ex was very lucky to have you in his life.”

And here it is, here’s the in. Dean takes a full, slow inhale and lets it out through his teeth.

“He, uh, actually didn’t think so. He was kinda an ass that way. Thought I was lucky to have him, not the other way around.”

“Really?” Castiel’s brow has furrowed into a deep frown. “What was he like, Dean? Did he treat you well?”

“He was…”

Dean struggles to find the right words. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of all this, wants to get it out in the open then sweep it under the nearest carpet as though nothing happened. He could just chicken out of this whole thing, say ‘nope, the guy was a class A asshole’ then move on, but it would feel too ingenuine. He doesn’t want Cas to dwell on all this, although logically he knows that’s not really possible, but he does want him to know. The guy is the most neurotic person Dean has ever met – and he means that in the most affectionate way possible. Cas is worming his way into Dean’s heart in a terrifying way.

“Dean.” Cas’ warm hand has come to rest on his thigh and when he glances up the look in the azure blue eyes is comforting. It gives him the strength to continue.

“He wasn’t good to me. He was demanding, manipulative, but I thought we were in love.”  Dean snorts in self-deprecation, remembering how deluded he had been. “We weren’t in love. He wanted to control my every move, it wasn’t love. It was obsession.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean.” Castiel is wearing a sympathetic expression that makes Dean’s skin crawl. He doesn’t want pity nor sympathy, he just wants to forget about it all. “Did he ever harm you? Physically?”

“Yeah. Sometimes. He was kinda rough, used to drag me about and got real mad if I didn’t do what he wanted.” God, he’s so close to revealing the truth to Cas. But he can’t, not tonight. It’s too much all at once, and talking about the scumbag is making him feel nauseous and as though his skin is on too tight. He can finish this another night, another time. “I’m fine, though, Cas. I came through it all. You don’t make the same mistake twice, right? So I’ve never been with a guy remotely like him since. Taught me to stay the hell away from scumbags, that’s for sure.”

He tries for a smile and Castiel returns it, though his is somewhat watery. He looks to be thinking deeply, his fingers intertwined tightly, and Dean knows the signs now of an impending anxiety attack. He reaches for Cas and wraps an arm around his shoulders, feeling the other man lean into him.

“I’m fine. I promise. He can’t hurt me anymore, and it wasn’t even as bad as I made it sound.” That’s a total lie, but he doesn’t want to see any more hurt swirling in those blue eyes. “He was an asshole, but he’s gone now. Onto bigger and better things. Hotter and sweeter guys.”

Castiel pulls away in lieu of wrapping Dean in the tightest hug he thinks he’s ever been given and, in spite of his attempts to maintain a strong and detatched façade, he melts into Castiel’s arms. Cas has shed his suit jacket and tie and is just in his crisp white shirt and smells of rich cologne and the underlying scent of his cinnamon body wash and the musky odour of himself, and Dean inhales deeply. Cas smells like safety, his arms feel strong and comforting around him and his hands stroke Dean’s back with such care and gentleness that he feels weirdly close to tears. Ever since the accident, he’s been oddly emotional, getting irrationally angry at nothing then sinking into sadness, and the way in which Castiel cradles him now is reminiscent of their night at the hospital. That night had been both tragically awful and wonderful at the same time – getting close to Cas and finally feeling his mouth on his had been the stuff of dreams, and Dean can scarce believe he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

He snuggles closer and Cas leans back on the couch, allowing Dean to curl up at his side. His ribs twinge but he ignores the pain. It’s worth it for this.

“You’re worth so much more than that, Dean.” Castiel murmurs into his hair. “I know we haven’t known each other all that long, but you’re… I think you’re wonderful. I hate that someone hurt you. And if you ever need to talk about it then please know I’m here to listen.”

Castiel might regret saying that, Dean muses. But right now, with his head pillowed on Cas’ chest and the gentle beating of his heart lulling him into a cosy cocoon of security, it’s difficult to worry too much about what has to come. Cas is here, Dean is here, and that’s all that matters.

···

“Castiel?” Anna knocks on the door once then cracks it open, causing Castiel to glance up from his spreadsheet with a frown of irritation at being interrupted. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s someone here to see you. He has a meeting scheduled for two-thirty but he’s early. Should I send him in?”

“Shortly. I’m in the middle of something. Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready for him.”

The door closes and Castiel leans back in his chair with a low sigh, fingertips ghosting over the touchpad on his keyboard until the spreadsheet is minimised and Dean’s smiling, slightly grainy face stares back at him from the screen. He’s becoming too proficient at lying to Anna, at pretending he’s been interrupted in the middle of some intrepid task when in reality he’s been chatting to his boyfriend online. It’s a naughty thing to do in the middle of a workday, to use the company wifi to Skype with Dean, but he’s found that after the first time they did it – the day after Dean arrived home from hospital – it’s been difficult not to answer every time his computer chimes with a new incoming call. He’s been known to dial out himself sometimes, too, and it gives him a little thrill to know he’s doing something illicit. He’d be hauled up in front of his superiors, he’s sure, if they knew he was webchatting during work hours. Of course, their conversations are completely mundane and all they do is talk, but Castiel has never been one for breaking a single rule in his life until now. Until Dean. And now it seems he’ll break all the rules in the book if it means he gets to keep spending time with the handsome, charming, funny and utterly dorky young man.

“Got a hot date, Cas?”

Dean smirks, and through the screen Castiel watches him sip his coffee and recline back on his couch. He’s wearing an old Metallica tour t-shirt and Zepp is curled up in his lap. Castiel cringes internally at the amount of cat hair clinging to the fabric of his clothing. He scratches the skin of his throat beneath his shirt collar in absent-minded discomfort and Dean notices.

“Hey. Don’t do that, Cas. You don’t need to do that.” His tone is soft, understanding, and Castiel’s hand drops back into his lap as mild relief courses through him. “What’s bothering you?”

Dean has been understanding in a way he never anticipated and has never once made him feel like a freak. He once walked past as Dean was clicking out of a web browser window and saw that it was titled with something to do with managing OCD and he had felt tears spark belligerently to his eyes at the realisation that Dean isn’t just putting up with his weird quirks – Dean actually and actively wants to help him. He’s never really had someone like that before in his life – Gabriel and Balthazar understand and accept him without much comment, as does his twin brother, but nobody has ever gone above and beyond to try and help ease the tension and the raw need to control his surroundings before. Not unless he paid them, anyway.

“Nothing. Just…” He gestures vaguely at the screen and Dean scratches Zepp behind the ears in understanding. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not. I know you hate how much he sheds. I’ll shower and change before I come to yours later, don’t worry.”

Dean’s consideration for him seems to know no bounds and Castiel’s throat tightens at the thought. He’s really looking forward to tonight. Dean has been restless and desperate to get out of the house so Castiel has offered to cook dinner for them both and Dean had leapt at the chance. He goes back to _Stairway to Heaven_ tomorrow, bar shifts only, and their schedules won’t match up properly for a good four days so he’s determined to spend as much time with Dean tonight as possible. The last couple of nights, as he lay in bed in his carefully pressed silk pyjama pants, the sheets neat around him, staring up at the ceiling, he’s ached for the presence of Dean. The morning and subsequent hours they’d spent together in his apartment had changed Castiel. He never thought he could be truly comfortable with another person in his space yet when Dean left the place had felt cold and empty, and he’s begun to wonder what it would be like to fall asleep next to the gorgeous guy he gets to call his and how it would feel to wake up together the next morning. Now, he craves it like oxygen and he wonders if Dean would consent to staying the night. He must ask him.

But just as he’s about to attempt to summon up the courage to find the words, there’s a sound at his door and Dean must hear it because he cocks his head in interest.

“Sir?” Anna is at his office door again, this time with a tall, sandy-haired man behind her dressed in an ill-fitting suit and insipid tie. “I have your two-thirty here for you.”

“I must go,” Castiel feels his cheeks pink up a little bit and injects a note of professionalism into his voice as he taps the touchpad to exit out of the conversation with Dean. He hopes fervently he can pass this off as a professional call. “I have a meeting to attend to.”

Dean seems to get it and nods, winking devilishly and causing Castiel to feel immediately warm around the collar and he digs his fingernails into his palm to stop himself reacting.

“No problem, Mr Novak.” There’s devilment in Dean’s tone and a shiver runs up Castiel’s spine. “Speak to you later, I’m sure.”

His heart rate definitely doubles at the smirk on his boyfriend’s face. “Yes. Uh, goodbye, Dean.”

He clicks out of the chat window, his features carefully schooled into a mask of professionalism that only blanches once when he sees Anna’s raised eyebrows, then stands and holds out a hand to introduce himself to the newcomer.

“I’ll be back with coffee then I’ll leave you to your meeting.” Anna intones, ever the consummate professional as the man steps forward and meets Castiel’s outstretched hand with a limp grip of his own that makes him shudder internally. “This is Castiel Novak, one of our company’s finest. And Castiel, this is Alastair Smith.”


	15. Chapter 15

Whoever this guy is, Castiel immediately dislikes him in a visceral way. The way he holds himself, the way his eyes glint, and the limp handshake that made Castiel’s bones twitch all adds up to a severe distaste for the man. Alastair takes a seat opposite Castiel’s desk, making a show of brushing invisible lint off it and then sitting down in such a way that it appears as though he’s seated upon a throne. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne reaches Castiel’s nose and he flinches back barely enough to be noticed – but Alastair’s flitting pale eyes seem to miss nothing.

“Castiel,” he drawls in a pinched, nasal voice. “Pleasure is all mine.”

Castiel doesn’t recall telling Alastair that it was pleasant to meet him – it is, in fact, the exact opposite – but he nods genially, regardless. If anything, he’s polite. Even to this utter creep who he can’t get far enough away from. He leans back in his chair and picks up a pen, hoping the movement looks natural, and somehow manages to initiate a professional conversation about the investment Alastair is wanting to make.

The meeting goes on for over an hour, primarily because Alastair can’t seem to stay on topic. He asks Castiel one too many personal questions about his own investments and finances, about his role in the company, even about his assistant Anna, and Castiel has to grit his teeth and do his best to keep the discussion on track. Even through his mask of professionalism, he knows his face displays a certain amount of shock when Alastair tells him how much capital he has available and how much he wants to invest. The man doesn’t look or act wealthy whatsoever, and Castiel privately berates himself for being so judgmental. It’s something he learned long ago in his career, not to judge his investors on their appearance, but Alastair is creeping him out so much that he’s letting himself make snap judgements that he would normally avoid.

The scent of stale smoke has permeated every inch of the office and his skin is crawling with each inhale. He doesn’t know how Anna will get the place smelling fresh again, but he does know that he’s heading out for coffee the nanosecond the guy exits the building just to take deep gulps of the clear air outside. Every atom in him is screaming at him to get out of the room, to get away from this man who just exudes filth in spite of his smartly tailored suit and overshined shoes. Castiel already knows that whatever this man does, it’s something shady. And that he’s very far from the usual type of client he would entertain. His superiors must know something he doesn’t, or the man must have staggering wealth at his fingertips, for him to have got as far as a meeting in the first place. 

“So,” Castiel says primly, uncapping a fountain pen and drawing a pad towards him. “Tell me about your business interests.”

“They’re… extensive, you could say.” The man’s voice drips with innuendo and Castiel has to repress a shudder.

“I’m afraid I’m not following. Please could you elaborate?” He breathes through his mouth subtly, trying to avoid inhaling Alastair’s scent.

“I’m in the entertainment industry,” Alastair leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers and leering through them at Castiel. He doesn’t volunteer any further information but the expression on his face is predatory, calculating, and not one that Castiel appreciates being directed at him.

“I see,” Castiel makes a note on his file. “What kind of entertainment? Music, movies?”

“Movies. Of the online variety.” The nasty smirk is still there on Alastair’s face and Castiel feels like he’s missing some kind of inside joke. “Very tasteful. You’d like them, I’m sure.”

“I don’t watch a lot of television,” Castiel says dismissively, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. He glances at the clock, wishing time would move faster. The only thing getting him through this torture is thinking about being with Dean later tonight.

“Don’t you?” Alastair asks conversationally. Then he leans forward and his expression is distinctly predatory. “I’m sure that my work would be of interest to you, Mr. Novak. A man of your status, I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

“I’m afraid I doubt it.” The tone of Alastair’s voice is giving Castiel the creeps and he’s in no doubt now that the man makes dubious movies, at best. “Now, I have all the information I need from you and I’ll be in touch with my fund recommendations within the next day or two.” He stands, resolutely drawing the meeting to a close and lies through his teeth. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“A real pleasure,” Alastair echoes, reaching for Castiel’s hand as something feral glints in his eyes. Castiel stares at the man’s extended hand for a moment, skin crawling, before dutifully shaking it. Alastair’s grip is bordering on painfully tight, a stark contrast to his previous handshake, and he jerks Castiel forward a little so they’re barely a breath apart. “I’m trusting you now, Castiel. Trusting you to take care of my… interests. I know you’re very good at that.”

Then he turns away, exiting the office and leaving Castiel feeling as though he’s missed a trick or an inside joke. He only comes to his senses when Anna pokes her head around the door with a wrinkled nose.

“He was awful. Is he coming back?”

“I hope not.” Castiel collapses into his office chair and rummages for his hand sanitiser. “I need to get some air. Anna, could you attend to this office, please? I find Mr Smith’s aroma to be… less than pleasing.”

“Of course, Castiel.” Anna says smoothly, and he heads out of the building for lunch, inhaling the fresh air deeply into his lungs and revelling in the feel of the sun warming his skin. He fishes his phone from his pocket, checking for a text, and is pleased to see that Dean has sent him one.

**Sorry our chat got cut short. Still on for dinner later?**

_Yes, please._ He types back, thumbs moving with ease over the keypad. He pauses, suddenly shy, then quickly types, _I miss you. I’m looking forward to seeing you._ Then sends it before he can chicken out. He loiters just outside the glossy glass doors of his company’s reception area, waiting for a reply.

Things with Dean are still so new, and they’ve had more than their fair share of ups and downs in the short time they’ve known each other. That combined with the baggage they’re both carrying around should make them a poor match, yet they seem to be gravitating towards each other more and more as the days go on. Castiel has never felt so accepted before, nor has he felt as calm and controlled as he does when he’s with Dean, near Dean, talking to Dean or thinking about Dean. The other man definitely does wonders for Castiel’s compulsive behaviours, that’s for sure. And as terrible as it was to see Dean injured and hurting, it’s brought them closer together in ways that may have taken much longer if the accident had never occurred.

Dean is complex in a way he could never have given him credit for had they not got to know each other. He has a huge heart, is the kindest and warmest person Castiel has ever met, and his innate need to care for those around him is visible in the way he looks and speaks to Castiel and the way he talks about his family. He’s confident, able to hold his own, and although Castiel can’t say he quite understands Dean’s choice of careers he’s finding it very hard to judge him for it. There’s a darkness in Dean’s past, one he’s glimpsed once or twice when the younger man’s guard is down and he’s said something in a certain tone or got this faraway look in his eyes as though he’s lost in a memory, and it hurts Castiel deeply to know Dean has been through something to leave such scars on his soul. He wants nothing more than happiness for Dean, wants him to smile and laugh and never be in any form of danger ever again.

He’s falling dangerously for the mischievous, green-eyed stripper and if anyone had said that to him in the past he would have baulked and probably never have spoken to them again. But Castiel is changing, and it’s all down to Dean.

His phone vibrates in his hand and he glances down to see a response to his text: **Miss you too, Cas. See you later.** Then two emojis, one green heart and one blue, finish off the message.

Castiel smiles, pockets his phone, and turns to head for the deli on the corner which does his favourite bacon and avocado salad. He doesn’t notice a dark figure standing shadowed in a doorway across the street, a cigarette burning at his fingertips, watching his every move.

•••

Thank whatever God might be around these days that Castiel’s building has an elevator. Dean is used to using his crutches now, and probably won’t need them for much longer, but he’s exhausted by them and utterly pissed off. He doesn’t want to be hobbling around like an invalid, especially turning up to a date with his handsome boyfriend. He can’t exactly sweep the guy off his feet if he can’t even stand on them to begin with. He’s trying to juggle his keys, phone, and a four-pack of beers whilst getting out of the lift and not falling on his ass, and it’s proving difficult.

Cursing, he eventually makes it to Castiel’s door which opens almost immediately, and the smell of something wonderfully spicy and aromatic reaches his nostrils and he almost swoons, his bad mood evaporating at the sight of his boyfriend and the promise of food.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek, taking the four-pack and steadying Dean as he hobbles into the apartment. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Yeah?” Toeing off his shoes and nudging them neatly into place, Dean glances around the spotless apartment. Lamps are glowing on the tables and the place looks cosy and inviting. Over in the kitchen, something is bubbling happily on the stove and everything is tidied away with no evidence at all that Castiel has been cooking aside from the two plates neatly lined up with cutlery and empty glasses waiting to be filled. “Wow. Something smells incredible.”

“I downloaded a recipe from the internet,” Cas says, cheeks pinking up a little bit as he takes Dean’s jacket and hangs it up. “I hope you like it.”

“I'm sure I will.” Dean wraps an arm around Cas loosely and kisses his stubbled cheek. The other man hasn't shaved in a day or two and it suits him. He smiles; old Cas would shave obsessively every day, it was part of his routine. But seeing him slowly begin to relax is wonderful to witness. “How was your day?”

“Horrid. But you're here now, so it's much better.” Castiel seems to realise what he's said and blushes, but Dean just laughs and squeezes him a little tighter.

“That's cute, Cas. I missed you, too. Why was your day so lousy?”

“I just had this client…” Castiel shudders visibly. “He was vile, Dean, he really was. He made my skin crawl with every word he said.”

“Really? Well, that sucks.” Dean has more than enough experience of dealing with people who make his skin crawl just to look at them. He has rather a long list, actually, with one specific person taking pride of place. “Do you have to see much of him?”

“I hope not.” Cas turns and kisses him full on the mouth, chaste and sweet, and before Dean can try to chase for more he's being dragged gently towards the dining table. “Let's eat.”

Dinner is a dream. Castiel either has hidden talents or he’s been keeping his skills in the kitchen a carefully guarded secret because the Moroccan cuisine he’s whipped up it completely delicious. Dean isn’t exactly an adventurous eater, preferring burgers and hot dogs to authentic world foods, but this blows his mind and to see Castiel’s pleased smile when he makes a sound akin to an orgasm after one mouthful of jewelled rice is wonderful to behold. The conversation flows naturally, and by the time they’ve finished eating Dean is convinced that this is the best evening they’ve spent together so far.

They link hands across the table, Dean brushing Castiel’s knuckles gently with his thumb, and is impressed that the other man hasn’t immediately leapt up to clean away the dishes and straighten out the already immaculate kitchen. In fact, it looks like he’s considering saying something, so Dean sits patiently and waits.

“There’s an event happening next week,” Castiel says carefully after a moment, studying his empty plate, and Dean tilts his head quizzically. “It’s an awards ceremony held by my company every year. It’s painfully dull, yet I’m expected to attend.” He clears his throat, glancing up at Dean then away again. “We’re allowed to bring guests, and I wondered. Well, I was wondering. I didn’t know if you’d feel comfortable-“

“Cas.” Dean reaches across the table and takes Castiel’s hand, smiling warmly when their eyes meet. “I’d love to go with you.”

“Really?” Castiel looks so relieved he could cry. “It might not be much fun, Dean. I wouldn’t go unless I had to. But I thought it might be more enjoyable with you there.”

“Hell yeah, Cas, I’m in. Some swanky event where I can rub shoulders with the other half? Sounds good to me.” Dean grins, sipping his beer. 

“Some of my clients might be there.” Castiel represses a shudder at the memory of today. “And some are… less than polite.”

“Cas, please. I take my clothes off for a living. I can handle any asshole that comes my way, believe me.”

“I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“Nah, not possible. Not when I’m with you.” Dean grins at him, then hobbles to his feet and scoops up their plates, waving away Castiel’s attempts at protest. “Shut up, you cooked. Let’s take this to the couch, you can take care of me over there.”

He suppresses a smirk at the pink hue that dusts Castiel’s cheeks as he limps on one crutch over to the sink to wash the dishes, dry them and carefully put them away. By the time he joins Castiel on the sofa, the other man has already made himself comfortable and reaches a hand out to guide him down next to him. He props his crutch up against the side of the couch and when he turns back, Cas is closer than he thought he would be and suddenly his mouth runs dry.

“I’m glad you’re here, Dean.” Castiel’s gaze drops to Dean’s lips then flicks back up again. “I really enjoy our time together.”

“I do too,” Dean swallows, allowing his eyes to fall closed as Castiel’s hand comes up to caress his cheek, then they’re kissing and time seems to come to a shuddering halt.

Castiel kisses as though he’s been starved for it, and Dean’s last coherent thought before his brain fuses to white noise is that he probably has been. Cas is holding him close, one hand on his wait and the other cupping the back of his neck, and he’s kissing deeply and passionately, so desperate that it’s stealing Dean’s breath from his lungs. They haven’t done this properly, not ever, not yet. Haven’t had the chance to descend into a gentle, deep makeup session because Dean’s been in the hospital or Dean’s been on painkillers, or Dean’s been in a foul mood, but tonight is just perfect. He wraps his arms around Castiel, kissing back with all he has and revelling in the gentle sigh that spills into his mouth. He can feel his body start to respond to Castiel’s kisses, but before he can really get into it Castiel pulls back, pecks a chaste kiss on his lips, and then they’re watching each other and sharing a breath.

“Do you want to stay here tonight, Dean?” Castiel breathes and oh _God_ , yes. But then Castiel pulls away a little, dropping his gaze and flushing a little. “I mean… I’m not ready for… I’d like you to stay. If you want to. But just to sleep. Together. But not _sleep_ together,” He glances up, apparently horrified at how badly he’s letting all this come out. It’s endearing as hell. “I just wanted…”

“Cas.” Dean reaches for his hand and squeezes it, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “I know what you mean. Just sleeping, no funny business. I can control myself.” Just about.

“Alright.” Castiel’s smile is eager and bashful, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and Dean is in no doubt at all about what a huge step this is, not just for their relationship but for Castiel in general. Inviting someone else into his home to share dinner with them is one thing, but inviting them to stay the night and share a bed is another. And yes, they’ve already woken up in the same bedroom once but that was through necessity rather than choice, so tonight tis completely different.

Getting ready for bed is full of shy smiles and gentle, barely-there touches. Dean isn’t a self-conscious guy, especially since Castiel has seen him stripped down more than once, but this time feels different. There’s an intimacy here that he hasn’t felt with anyone in a long time, and when he eventually lies down beneath Castiel’s 400-thread-count sheets, it’s with a sense of peace and renewed excitement for life that has been dormant inside him for years.

“Goodnight, Dean.” Castiel whispers into the dark, and Dean smiles.

“’Night, Cas. Sleep well.”

Dean’s eyes slowly fall closed and within minutes he's fast asleep. But it's far from peaceful.

_He's in the passenger seat of a car, driving fast down city streets. The streetlamps are a blur, the taillights of the car in front twinkling like rubies, and he's aware that it's late at night. Very late. He's unsure where exactly he is, or who he's in the car with. He turns to look but the man’s face is in shadow. It's someone he knows, he's sure of that much._

_Then the man’s head turns, slowly, painful slowly, and the glow of a passing street lamp casts him into a sudden light and Dean lets out a low cry of alarm._

_Alastair stares back at him, bony hands gripping the wheel and yellow teeth bared in an ugly grin._

_Panic spears through Dean like an arrow and he claws at the door, fumbling for the handle, while manic laughter begins to fill the car. Alastair is grabbing him with rough hands, attempting to pin him in his seat and the door won't open. It's locked, and hysteria bubbles up inside Dean as the car begins to speed even faster. He's going to kill us both, Dean realises with a jolt of terror. I'm going to die…_

_“You can't escape, Dean,” Alastair sneers as Dean tries in vain to wrench the door handle open, the streets a blur outside the window. “You and I, we're meant to be. You're tied to me, Dean, forever. Forever…”_

_And as Alastair’s voice echoes throughout the car, Dean sees someone step into the road ahead of them. But instead of slowing down, Alastair laughs maniacally and presses down on the accelerator. Dean tries to grab the wheel, to avoid hitting the person in the middle of the road, but Alastair shoves him away with near superhuman strength. Then, as they advance on the man in the road, the man looks up and Dean sees his own pale, frightened face staring back at him a split second before there's a crunch of a body hitting the windshield of the car. Glass splinter, Alastair is howling with glee, and…_

Whole body jerking, Dean is catapulted awake and lies on his back gasping, staring at the ceiling. He’s gripping the sheets tightly, the same way he was gripping the steering wheel in his dream, and he’s burning hot, drenched in sweat. The room is bathed in a cool darkness, the window cracked open and the curtain billowing in the draught, and Dean draws a deep breath in then exhales slowly. He’s well versed in waking sharply from horrible nightmares.

What he isn’t familiar with, however, is someone stirring next to him, propping themselves up on an elbow, and whispering, “Dean? Are you alright?” into the space between them.

“Nightmare,” he breathes, hissing the words out through gritted teeth. “‘M fine.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel’s hand is warm on his bicep and Dean melts into the touch. It feels like they've broken through a barrier tonight and now Cas can't stop touching him. “Sometimes talking about things can… help.”

But he can't. He can't fracture this delicate intimacy that has settled upon them, can't soil it all by telling Castiel that he's starred - against his consent - in pornography and that it's out there on the internet for the world to see. Castiel has been understanding about the stripping and the camming, _somehow_ , but Dean just knows that will be a step too far. Castiel wouldn't want him after that. There's no way.

Instead, he turns on his side and snuggles into Cas who wraps an arm around him and pulls him close to his chest. Cas smells like cinnamon and feels strong and solid, and Dean sighs against his skin.

“If I did wanna talk, Cas, please know you'd be the one I'd talk to. I just… I can't, not right now. Not yet.”

“Alright, Dean.” Cool, gentle hands pet his hair and Dean relaxes into the embrace, the last remnants of the dream fading away. “But whenever you feel you're ready, I'm here to listen.”

They lie there in the quiet, listening to the sound of the rain outside, and Dean wonders if he’ll ever be truly ready. Now that he's found Cas, he's becoming increasingly scared of the idea of letting him go.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/coffeeandcas) if you want to come and talk to me. Please do, I love hearing from you all.


End file.
